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WILLIAM    SHAKSPERE 


S  Stutio  in  1£lijabet()an  Hiterature 


BY 

BARRETT  WENDELL 

ASSISTANT    PROFESSOR    OF    ENGLISH    AT    HARVARD    COLLEGE 


NEW    YORK 

CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

1909 


V     . 


Copyright,  1894, 
Bt  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


vu^ 


l-l- 


.!U 


Xr^ 


■.-h^ 


South         Jena  Public 


NOTE 

As  this  book  has  grown  from  lectures  given,  at 
Harvard  College,  to  classes  who  were  systematically 
reading  the  works  under  discussion,  it  has  been  im- 
possible to  avoid  the  assumption  that  a  text  of  Shaks- 
pere  is  always  close  at  hand. 

Whoever  is  familiar  with  the  subject  must  instantly 
perceive  my  constant  obligation  to  the  writings  of 
Mr.  Dowden  and  Mr.  Furnivall.  Just  as  helpful, 
though  not  obvious  to  the  public,  have  been  the  manu- 
script notes  on  Shakspere  kindly  lent  me  by  Messrs. 
Charles  Lowell  Young  and  Henry  Copley  Greene,  of 
Harvard  University  ;  and  by  Miss  M.  T.  Bennett,  of 
Radcliffe  College.  The  proof-sheets  of  an  admirable 
essay  on  John  Lyly  by  my  colleague,  Mr.  George 
Pierce  Baker,  unhappily  failed  to  reach  me  until  after 
this  book  was  printed. 

B.  W. 

New  Castle,  N.  H., 

23  August,  1894 


< 


CONTENTS 


-♦- 


Chaptis  Paoi 

I.     Introduction 1 

11.    The  Facts  of  Shakspere's  Life 7 

III.    Literature  and  the  Theatre  in  England 

UNTIL  1587 23 

rv.    The  Works  of  Shakspere 48 

V.     Venus    and     Adonis,    and    the     Rape    of 

Lucrece 51 

VI.     The  Plays  of  Shakspere,  from  Titus   An- 
dronicus    to    the     Two    Gentlemen    of 

Verona 66 

VII.     The    Plays    of    Shakspere,    from    A  Mid- 
summer    Night's     Dream      to    Twelfth 

Night 103 

VIII.    Shakspere's  Sonnets 221 

IX.     The    Plays    of     Shakspere,    from    Julius 

CiESAR  to  Coriolanus 238 

X.    Timon    of   Athens,    and  Pericles,    Prince 

of  Tyre 345 

XL    The  Plays  of  Shakspere,  from  Cymbeline 

to  Henry  VIII 355 

XII.     William  Shakspere 395 

Authorities,  etc 427 

In^x 4f* 


»». 


WILLIAM    SHAKSPERE 


INTRODUCTION 

The  purpose  of  this  study  is  to  present  a  coherent 
view  of  the  generally  accepted  facts  concerning  the 
life  and  the  work  of  Shakspere.  Its  object,  the 
common  one  of  serious  criticism,  is  so  to  increase 
our  sympathetic  knowledge  of  what  we  study  that  we 
may  enjoy  it  with  fresh  intelligence  and  appreciation. 
The  means  by  which  we  shall  strive  for  this  end  will 
be  a  constant  efifort  to  see  Shakspere,  so  far  as  is 
possible  at  this  distance  of  time,  as  he  saw  himself. 

Of  one  thing  we  may  be  certain.  To  himself  Shaks- 
pere was  a  very  different  fact  from  what  he  now  seems 
to  the  English-speaking  world.  To  people  of  our  time 
he  generally  presents  himself  as  an  isolated,  supreme 
genius.  To  people  of  his  own  time  —  and  he  was  a 
man  of  his  own  time  himself  —  he  was  certainly  no- 
thing of  the  kind ;  he  was  no  divine  prophet,  no 
superhuman  seer,  whose  utterances  should  edify  and 
guide  posterity ;  he  was  only  one  of  a  considerable 
company  of  hard-working  playwrights,  whose  work 
at  the  moment  seemed  neitiier  more  nor  less  serious 

1_ 


2  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

than  that  of  any  other  school  of  theatrical  writers. 
Nothing  but  the  lapse  of  time  could  have  demonstrated 
two  or  three  facts  now  so  commonplace  that  we  are 
apt  to  forget  they  were  not  always  obvious. 

First  of  all,  the  school  of  literature  in  which  his 
work  belongs  —  the  Elizabethan  drama  —  proves  to 
have  been  one  of  the  most  completely  typical  phe- 
nomena in  the  whole  history  of  the  fine  arts.    It  took 
little  more  than  half  a  century  to  emerge  from  an 
archaic  tradition,  to  develop  into  great   imaginative 
vitality,  and  to  decline   into  a  formal  tradition,  no 
longer  archaic,  but  if  possible  less  vital  than  the  tra- 
dition from  which  it  emerged.     In  this  typical  liter- 
ary evolution,  again,  Shakspere's  historical  position 
happens  to  have  been  almost  exactly  central ;   some 
of   his   work  belongs   to   the   earlier   period   of  the 
Elizabethan  drama,  much  of  it  to  the  most  intensely 
vital,  some  of  it  to  the  decline.     This  fact  alone  — 
that  in  a  remarkably  typical  school  of  art  he  is  the 
most   comprehensively  typical   figure  —  would   make 
him   worth    serious   attention.      The   third  common- 
place  invisible   to    his  contemporaries,  however,   is 
so  much  more  important  than  either  of   the  others 
that   nowadays    it    obscures    them,    and    indeed   ob- 
scures the  whole  subject.     This  most  typical  writer 
of  our  most  broadly  typical  literary  school  happened 
to  be  an  artist  of  first-rate  genius.     Canting  as  such  a 
phrase  must  sound,  it  has  something  like  a  precise 
meaning.     In  the  fine  arts,  the  man  of  genius  is  he 
who  in  perception  and  in  expression  alike,  in  thought 


INTRODUCTIOX  3 

and  in  phrase,  instinctively  so  does  his  work  that 
his  work  remains  significant  after  the  conditions 
which  actually  produced  it  are  past.  Throughout 
the  Elizabethan  drama  there  were  flashes  of  genius ; 
in  general,  however,  the  work  of  the  Elizabethan 
dramatists  was  so  adapted  to  the  conditions  of  the 
Elizabethan  stage  that,  after  the  lapse  of  three  cen- 
turies, its  flashes  of  genius  have  faded  into  the  ob- 
scurity of  book-shelves,  where  they  serve  now  chiefly 
to  lighten  the  drudgery  of  men  who  study  the  history 
of  literature.  In  the  case  of  Shakspere,  the  genius 
was  so  strong  and  permeating  that  his  work,  from 
beginning  to  end,  has  survived  every  vestige  of  the 
conditions  for  which  it  was  made.  We  are  apt  now 
to  forget  that  it  was  made  for  any  other  conditions 
than  those  amid  which,  generation  by  generation,  we 
find  it. 

If  we  would  sincerely  try  to  see  the  man  as  he  saw 
himself,  we  must  resolutely  put  aside  these  common- 
places of  posterity.  In  their  stead  we  must  substi- 
tute the  normal  commonplaces  of  human  experience. 
Shakspere,  we  know,  was  an  Elizabethan  playwright ; 
and  we  know  enough  of  the  Elizabethan  drama  to 
form,  in  the  end,  a  pretty  clear  conception  of  the  pro- 
fessional task  which  was  thus  constantly  before  him. 
By  both  temperament  and  profession,  too,  Shakspere 
was  a  creative  artist ;  and  those  of  us  who  have  had 
much  to  do  with  people  who  try  to  create  works  of 
art  learn  to  know  that  in  general  the  artistic  temper- 
ament, great  or  small,  develops  according  to  pretty 


4  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

well  fixed  principles.  Our  effort  to  understand  Shaks- 
pere,  then,  begins  to  define  itself.  We  shall  have  done 
much  if  we  can  learn  to  see  in  him  a  man  of  normal 
artistic  temperament,  developing,  in  spite  of  its  scale, 
in  a  normal  way,  under  the  known  conditions  which 
surrounded  the  Elizabethan  theatre. 

Such  definite  study  of  him  as  this  has  been  possible 
only  in  recent  years.  Until  rather  lately  one  obstacle 
to  it  was  insurmountable.  To  study  the  development 
of  any  artist,  we  must  know  something  of  the  order  in 
which  his  works  were  produced ;  and  Shakspere's 
works  have  generally  been  presented  to  us  in  great 
chronological  confusion.  The  first  collection  of  his 
plays,  a  very  carelessly  printed  folio,  appeared  in 
1623.  Here  they  were  roughly  classified  as  come- 
dies, histories,  and  tragedies ;  under  these  heads, 
too,  they  were  arranged  in  no  sort  of  order.  The 
book  opens  with  the  Tempest,  for  example,  which  is 
followed  by  the  Two  G-entlemen  of  Verona;  yet  nothing 
is  now  much  better  proved  than  that  the  Two  G-entle- 
men of  Verona  is  the  earlier  by  above  fifteen  years. 
Again,  the  plays  dealing  with  English  history  are 
printed  in  the  order  in  which  the  sovereigns  they  deal 
with  ascended  the  throne  of  England ;  yet,  if  we  except 
Henry  VIII.,  which  stands  by  itself,  nothing  is  more 
certain  than  that  Henry  VI.  is  chronologically  the 
first  of  the  series,  and  Henry  V.  the  last,  with  an  in- 
terval of  at  least  nine  years  between  them.  The 
general  arrangement  of  the  plays  in  the  first  folio, 
fairly  exemplified  by  these  instances,  is  still  followed 


INTRODUCTION  5 

in  standard  editions  of  Shakspere.     The  resulting  con- 
fusion of  impression  is  almost  ultimate. 

During  the  past  century  or  so,  however,  scholarship 
has  gone  far  to  reduce  this  chaos  to  order.  On  various 
grounds,  a  plausible  chronology  has  arisen.  Sixteen 
of  the  plays,  and  all  of  the  poems,  were  published  in 
quarto  during  Shakspere's  lifetime.  Entries  in  the 
Stationers'  Register — analogous  to  modern  copyright 
—  exist  in  many  cases.  Allusions  in  the  works  of  con- 
temporary writers  are  sometimes  helpful ;  so  are  allu- 
sions to  contemporary  matters  in  the  plays  themselves. 
More  subtle,  less  certain,  but  surprisingly  suggestive 
chronological  evidence  has  been  collected  by  elaborate 
analysis  of  technical  style.  It  has  been  discovered,  for 
example,  that  end-stopped  verse,  and  rhyme  are  far 
more  frequent  in  Sliakspere's  earlier  work  than  in  his 
later,  and  that  what  are  called  light  and  weak  endings 
to  verses  occur  in  constantly  increasing  proportion 
during  the  last  six  or  eight  years  of  his  writing.  The 
plays  have  been  grouped  accordingly.^  By  some 
means  or  other,  then,  and  in  almost  every  case  by 
means  foreign  to  the  actual  substance  of  the  works 
in  question,  foreign  to  the  matters  they  deal  with  or 
to  the  mood  in  which  they  deal  with  them,  a  conjec- 
tural date  —  as  a  rule  provisionally  accepted  by 
scholars  —  has  been  assigned  to  every  work  com- 
monly ascribed  to  Shakspere. 

Reading  the  plays  and  the  poems  in  this  conjecturally 

*  An  adequate  discussion  of  this  matter  is  accessible  to  everybody 
in  Dowden's  Primer  of  Shakspere,  pp   32-46 


6  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

chronological  order  we  find  in  them  something  far  re- 
moved from  the  pristine  confusion  of  the  standard 
editions.  Once  for  all,  of  course,  we  must  admit  to 
ourselves  that  what  results  we  thus  find  are  not  in- 
contestable. As  our  chronology  is  only  conjectural, 
so  must  be  any  inferences  which  we  may  draw  from 
it.  If  these  inferences  be  plausible,  however,  if  they 
help  us  to  find  in  Shakspere  not  only  the  supreme 
genius  of  English  literature,  but  also  a  normal  hu- 
man being,  greater  than  others,  but  not  different  in 
kind,  we  are  fairly  warranted  in  accepting  them  as 
a  matter  of  faith.  At  least  we  may  believe,  though 
we  may  never  assert,  that  they  can  help  us  in  our  effort 
to  see  Shakspere  as  he  saw  himself ;  and  so  to  under- 
stand, to  appreciate,  to  enjoy  him  better  than  before. 
Our  purpose,  then,  is  to  obtain  a  coherent  view  of  the 
generally  accepted  facts  concerning  the  life  and  the 
work  of  Shakspere.  To  accomplish  this,  we  may  best 
begin  by  glancing  at  the  known  facts  of  Shakspere's 
life.  Then  we  shall  briefly  consider  the  condition  of 
English  literature  at  the  time  when  his  literary  ac- 
tivity began.  Then  we  shall  consider  in  chronological 
order,  and  with  what  detail  proves  possible,  all  the 
works  commonly  assigned  to  him.  Finally,  we  shall 
endeavor  to  define  the  resulting  impression  of  his 
individuality. 


n 

THE  FACTS  OF  SHAKSPERE'S  LIFE 

[All  the  known  documents  concerning  Shakspere  are  collected  in 
Mr.  Halliwell-IMiillips's  Outlines  of  the  Life  of  Shakespeare.  In  Mr.  F.  G. 
Fleay's  Life  and  Work  of  Shakespeare  is  a  masterly  discussion  of  them. 
Dowden's  Primer,  and  Furnivall's  Introduction  to  the  Leopold  Shalcs- 
ptre  state  the  facts  more  compactly.  lu  none  of  the  authorities  is  it 
always  easy  to  separate  facts  from  inferences.  If  Wilder's  Life,  Boston, 
1893,  were  a  bit  more  careful  iu  detail,  it  would  be  perhaps  the  most 
satisfactory,  because  the  least  complicated  with  conjecture.] 

On  April  26th,  1564,  William,  son  of  John  Shaks- 
pere, was  baptized  at  Stratford-on-Avon.  John  Shaks- 
pere, the  father,  had  come  from  the  neighboring 
country  to  Stratford,  where  he  was  engaged  in  fairly 
prosperous  trade.  In  1557  he  had  married  Mary 
Arden,  a  woman  of  social  position  somewhat  better 
than  his  ow«.  In  1568  he  was  High  Bailiff,  or 
Mayor  of  Stratford.  Until  1577,  indeed,  the  extant 
records  indicate  that  he  was  constantly  looking  up 
in  the  world.  In  that  year,  they  begin  to  indicate 
that  his  circumstances  were  declining ;  in  1578  they 
show  that  he  had  to  put  a  mortgage  for  £40  on  an 
estate  called  Asbies.  Meanwhile  he  had  become  the 
father  of  five  other  children,^  of  whom  four  survived. 

J  Gilbert,  b.  1566;  Joan,  b.  L-ieg;  Amie,  b.  1571,  d.  1579;  Richard, 
b.  1573;  Edmund,  b.  l.")80.     Two  older  daughters  had  died  in  infancy 


8  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

Of  William  Shakspere's  youth,  then,  we  may  be 
sure  that  it  began  in  a  well-to-do  family  of  Stratford, 
increasing  in  numbers  and  prosperity ;  and  that  when 
he  was  about  thirteen  years  old  the  prosperity  came 
to  an  end. 

On  November  28th,  1582,  when  he  was  half-way 
between  eighteen  and  nineteen  years  old,  comes  the 
first  record  which  directly  concerns  him.  A  bond 
was  given  for  his  marriage  to  Anne  Hathaway,  a 
woman  then  in  her  twenty-sixth  year,  and  of  social 
position  in  no  way  better  than  Shakspere's.  On  May 
26th,  1583,  their  first  child,  Susanna,  was  baptized. 
What  inferences  may  be  drawn  from  these  dates  have 
given  rise  to  much  discussion.  In  all  probability  they 
indicate  a  practice  still  common  among  respectable 
country  folk,  in  America  sometimes  called  "  keep- 
ing company ; "  and  are  interesting  cliiefly  as  they 
throw  light  on  the  manners  to  which  Shakspere  was 
born.  On  February  2nd,  1585,  his  twin  children, 
Hamnet  and  Judith,  were  baptized.  In  1587,  there 
is  a  record  of  his  sanction,  at  Stratford,  to  a  proposed 
arrangement  concerning  the  Asbies  mortgage  which 
his  father,  who  was  now  in  prison  for  debt,  had  exe- 
cuted in  1578.  This  is  literally  all  that  is  known  of 
his  early  life  at  Stratford.  Stories  of  how  he  went  to 
school,  how  he  saw  plays,  how  he  was  at  Kenilworth 
when  Queen  Elizabeth  came  there  in  1575,  how  he  was 
apprenticed  to  a  local  butcher,  how  he  poached  in  Sir 
Thomas  Lucy's  park,  have  no  authority.  They  are 
not  impossible  ;  there  is  nothing  to  prove  them. 


SIIAKSPERE'S   LIFE  9 

From  the  actual  facts,  however,  certain  inferences 
may  be  drawn.  At  the  age  of  twenty -three,  he  was 
the  eldest  of  the  five  surviving  children  of  a  ruined 
country  tradesman ;  he  was  married  to  a  woman 
already  about  thirty,  who  had  borne  him  three  chil- 
dren ;  and  he  had  no  recorded  means  of  support. 

Five  years  later  comes  the  next  reference  to  him. 
On  September  3d,  1592,  Robert  Greene,  the  dramatist, 
died.  His  last  book,  Greek's  Groatsworth  of  Wit; 
bought  ivith  a  Million  of  Repentaunce,  speaks  rather 
scurrilously  of  the  thcati-es  where  he  had  rioted  away 
his  life.     In  the  course  of  it  occurs  this  passage  : 

"  Base  minded  men  al  tliree  of  you,  if  by  my  miserie 
ye  be  not  warned:  for  unto  none  of  you  (like  me)  sought 
those  burres  to  cleave:  those  Puppits  (I  meane)  that 
speake  from  our  mouths,  those  Anticks  garnisht  in  our 
colours.  Is  it  not  strange  that  I,  to  whom  tliey  al  have 
beene  beholding:  is  it  not  like  that  you,  to  whome  they  all 
have  beene  beholding,  shall  (were  ye  in  that  case  that  I  am 
now)  be  both  at  once  of  them  forsaken?  Yes,  trust  them 
not:  for  there  is  an  upstart  Crow,  beautified  with  our 
feathers,  tliat  witli  liis  Tyijevs  heart  wrapt  in  a  Players 
hide,^  supposes  he  is  as  well  able  to  bumbast  out  a  blanke 
verse  as  the  best  of  you:  and  being  an  absolute  Johannes 
fac  totnm,  is  in  his  oune  conceit  the  onely  Shake-scene  in 
a  countrie.  0  that  I  might  intreate  your  rare  wits  to  be 
imployed  in  more  profitable  courses:  &  let  these  Apes 
imitate  your  past  excellence,  and  never  more  acquaint 
them   with   your  admired    inventions.   ...    It   is   pittie 

1  Cf.  3  Henri/  VI.  Act  I.  Scene  iv.  137. 


10  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

men  of  such  rare  wits,  should  be  subject  to  the  pleasures 
of  such  rude  groomes.  .  .  .  For  other  new  commers,  I 
leave  them  to  the  mercie  of  these  painted  monsters,  who 
([  doubt  not)  will  drive  the  best  minded  to  despise  them; 
for  the  rest  its  skils  not  though  they  make  a  jeast  at 
them."i 

From  this  passage,  we  may  clearly  infer  that  by 
the  middle  of  1592,  Shakspere  was  a  recognized 
writer  of  plays  in  London,  that  he  was  more  or  less 
involved  in  the  theatrical  squabbles  of  the  time,  that 
The  Third  Part  of  King  Henry  VI.  was  in  existence, 
and  that  —  at  least  to  the  mind  of  Robert  Greene  — 
he  had  plagiarized. 

Within  the  year,  Henry  Chettle,  the  publisher  of 
this  posthumous  diatribe  of  Greene's,  published  an 
apology  for  it,  in  the  course  of  which  he  writes 
thus :  — 

**With  neither  of  them  that  did  take  offence  was  I 
acquainted,  and  with  one  of  them  I  care  not  if  I  never  be : 
The  other,  ...  at  that  time  I  did  not  so  much  spare,  as 
since  I  wish  I  had,  .  .  .  because  my  selfe  have  seen  his 
demeanor  no  lesse  civill  than  he  exelent  in  the  qualitie  he 
professes:  Besides,  divers  of  worship  have  reported  his 
uprightnes  of  dealing,  which  argues  his  honesty,  and  his 
facetious  grace  in  writing,  that  aprooves  his  Art."  * 

It  has  been  generally  inferred  that  the  two  persons 

^  Shakspere's  Centurie  of  Prayse.     Second  Edition,  London.     Nevi 
Shakspere  Society,  1879,  p.  2. 
2  Centurie  of  Pra;/se,  p.  4. 


SHAKSPERE'S   LIFE  11 

thus  alluded  to  are  the  graceless  Marlowe  and  the 
excellent  Shakspere. 

On  April  18th,  1593,  about  a  week  before  his  twenty- 
ninth  birthday,  Vknus  and  Adonis,  his  first  published 
work,^  was  entered  in  the  Stationers'  Register.  During 
the  same  year  it  was  published  in  quarto,  with  Shaks- 
perc's  name,  by  one  Field,  who  was  Stratford-born.  It 
proved  highly  popular  ;  there  were  eleven  quarto  edi- 
tions before  1630,  and  more  than  twenty  allusions  to 
it  during  Shakspcre's  life-time  have  been  discovered. 

On  February  6th,  1594,  A  noble  Roman  history 
of  Ti/tus  Andronicus  was  entered  in  the  Stationers' 
Register,  with  no  mention  of  Shakspcre's  name  ;  it  was 
published,  thus  anonymously,  in  1600.  On  May  9th, 
1594,  the  Rape  of  Luerece  was  entered ;  and  it  was 
published  within  the  year.  From  the  terms  of  the 
dedication,  compared  with  those  in  the  dedication  of 
Venus  and  Adonis?  it  has  been  inferred  that  Shaks- 
pere had  meanwhile  become  personally  known  to  his 
patron,  the  Earl  of  Southampton.  The  poem,  though 
popular,  was  less  so  than  Venus  and  Adonis ;  there 
were  six  quartos  before  1624. 

At  Christmas  time,  1594,  the  "  servauntes  to  the 
Lord  Chamberlayne  "  acted  twice  at  court ;  and  Shaks- 
pere is  mentioned  as  one  of  the  members  to  whom 
payment  for  these  performances  was  made.  Mr. 
Fleay  ^  shows  reason  to  believe  that  he  had  belonged 

*  And  is  not  this  the  whole  meaninc:  of  the  much-discussed  phrase 
in  the  dedication,  "  the  first  heir  of  my  invention  "  ? 
2  See  p.  51.  «  Life,  pp.  8,  94. 


12  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

to  this  company,  under  various  patrons,  since  1587, 
in  whicli  case  he  must  have  acted  at  court  before; 
but  this  is  the  first  distinct  mention  of  his  name.  At 
Christmas-tide,  1594,  "  A  comedy  of  Errors  (like 
unto  Plautus  his  Menoechmi ")  was  played  at  Gray's 
Inn.  Clearly,  by  this  time  Shakspere  was  estaljlished 
in  liis  profession.  Just  how  he  became  so  there  is  no 
record  ;  the  tales  of  his  holding  horses  at  the  theatre- 
door,  and  so  on,  rest  on  no  valid  authority. 

So  far,  then,  the  records  show  Shakspere  first  as 
a  probably  imprudent  and  needy  youth,  saddled  with  a 
family  at  twenty -three ;  and  secondly,  at  thirty,  as 
a  fairly  established  theatrical  man  in  London.  In 
view  of  these  facts,  the  next  records  ^  are  significant. 
A  conveyance  of  land  at  Stratford,  dated  January 
26th,  1596,  describes  John  Shakspere,  the  father, 
as  "yeoman."  In  the  Heralds'  College,  a  draft  grant 
of  arms  to  this  same  John  Shakspere,  dated  October 
20th,  1596,  describes  him  as  a  "  gentleman."  From 
the  fact  that  this  implied  return  of  prosperity  to  the 
family  has  no  other  apparent  source  than  the  growing 
prosperity  of  the  dramatist,  it  has  been  inferred  that, 
like  any  other  normal  Englishman,  Shakspere  wished 
to  inherit  arms  and  to  found  a  family.  If  so,  another 
record,  of  the  same  year,  is  doubly  pathetic  ;  on  August 
11th,  his  only  son,  Hamnet,  was  buried  at  Stratford, 
in  the  twelfth  year  of  his  age. 

The  record  of  Shakspere's  material  prosperity,  how- 
ever, continues.     In  Easter  Term,  1597,  he  bought 

^  Leopold  Shakspere,  p.  ciii. 


SHAKSPEKE'S   LIFE  13 

New  Place,  a  mansion  and  grounds  in  Stratford,  for 
X60;  thereby  becoming  a  landed  proprietor.  During 
the  same  year  appeared  the  first  quarto  editions  of  his 
plays  :  namely,  Romeo  and  Juliet  in  a  very  imperfect 
state  and  probably  pirated,  Richard  II.,  and  Richard 
III. ;  his  name,  however,  did  not  appear  on  any  of 
the  titlepages.  Another  indication  of  j)rosperity  is 
that  in  November  his  father  filed  a  bill  in  Chancery  to 
recover  the  Asbies  estate  which  he  had  mortgaged  nine- 
teen years  before.  At  Christmas  time  Lovers  Labour 's 
Lost  was  played  before  the  Queen  at  Whitehall. 

In  1598  this  play  was  published,  with  Shakspere's 
name ;  so  was  the  First  Part  of  Henry  IV. ;  so  were 
fresh  quartos  of  Richard  II.  and  Richard  III. ;  and 
the  Merchant  of  Venice  was  both  entered  in  the 
Stationers'  Register  and  published. 

In  this  year,  too,  a  fragment  of  old  correspondence 
gives  us  a  glimpse  of  Shakspere.  On  the  24th  of  Jan- 
uary one  Abraham  Sturley,  a  Stratford  man,  wrote  to 
his  kinsman  Richard  Quiney,  who  had  gone  to  London 
on  business,  as  follows  :  — 

**Our  countrinian,  Mr  Shaksper,  is  willinge  to  disburse 
rfome  mouie  upon  some  od  yarde  land  or  other  at.  Shotterie 
.  .  .  (Ur  father)  thinketh  it  a  veri  fitt  patterue  to  move 
him  to  deale  in  the  matter  of  our  tithes.  Bi  the  instruc- 
ciou  u  can  give  him  thearof,  and  bi  the  frends  he  can 
make  therefore,  we  thinke  it  a  fair  marke  for  him  to  shoote 
att,  and  not  unpossible  to  hitt." 

Eight  months  later,  on  the  25th  of  October,  Quiney 
wrote  thus:  — 


14  WILLIAM   SIIAKSPERE 

"  To  ray  loveinge  good  ffrend  &  countreymann  Mr.  Wm. 
Shackspere.  ...  I  am  bolde  of  you  as  of  a  ffrende,  crave- 
inge  yowr  helpe  with  xxx  li  uppon  Mr,  Bushells  and  my 
securytee,  or  Mr.  Myttons  with  me.  .  .  .  Yow  shall 
ffrende  me  much  in  helping  me  out  of  all  the  debettes 
I  owe  in  London,  I  thancke  God,  and  much  quiet  my 
mynde,    which  wolde  not  be  indebeted." 

Some  word  of  this  letter  seems  to  have  been  sent  to 
Sturley,  for  on  the  4th  of  November,  Sturley  wrote  to 
Quiney,  acknowledging 

''ur  letter  of  the  25  of  October  .  .  .  which  imported 
that  our  countriman  Mr.  Wm.  Shak.  would  procure  us 
monie,  which  I  will  like  of  as  I  shall  heare  when  and 
wheare  and  howe;  and  I  prai  Jet  not  go  that  occasion  if 
it  mai  sort  to  our  indifferent  condicions." 

Later  still,  Richard  Quiney's  father  wrote  his  son 
on  the  subject  in  person,  perhaps  a  shade  less 
confidently  :  —  ^ 

''  Yff  yow  bargen  with  Wm.  Sha.  ...  or  receve  money 
therefor,  bring  3  oure  money  homme  that  yow  may." 

Whatever  these  transactions  were,  Shakspere  seems 
by  this  time  to  have  presented  himself  to  his  fellow- 
townsmen  at  Stratford  as  a  well-to-do  man,  and  possi- 
bly a  useful  friend  at  court. 

In  1598,  furthermore,  Shakspere  acted  in  Ben  Jon- 
son's  Every  Man  in  his  Humour.  But  the  most 
notable  fact  of  the  year  for  us  is  the  publication  of 
Francis  Meres's  Falladis  Tamia}    In  this  book,  which 

^  Or  Wit's  Treasury. 


SHAKSPERE'S    LIFE  15 

was  entered  in  the  Stationers'  Register  on  September 
7th,  Shakspere  is  mentioned  at  least  six  times  ^  as 
among  the  best  of  English  authors.  The  most  cele- 
brated and  familiar  of  these  passages  is  the  following, 
so  obviously  helpful  in  fixing  the  chronology  of  Shaks- 
pere's  plays :  — 

"As  the  soule  of  Euphorhus  was  thought  to  live  in 
Pythagoras :  so  the  sweete  wittie  soule  of  Ovid  lives 
in  mellifluous  &  hony-tongued  Shakespeare,  witnes  his 
Venus  siTid  Adonis,  his  Lucrece,  his  sugred  Sonnets  among 
his  private  friends,  &c. 

'*As  Plaidus  and  Seneca  are  accounted  the  best  for 
Comedy  and  Tragedy  among  the  Latines  ?  so  Shakespeare 
among  y"  English  is  the  most  excellent  in  both  kinds  for 
the  stage;  for  Comedy,  witnes  his  Getleme  of  Verona,  his 
Errors,  his  Love  labors  lost,  his  Love  labours  wonne,  his 
Midsummers  night  dreame,  &  his  Merchant  of  Venice : 
for  Tragedy  his  Richard  the  2.  Richard  the  3.  Henry 
the  Jf.  King  John,  Titus  Andronicus  and  his  Romeo  and 
Juliet. 

"As  Epius  Stolo  said,  that  the  Muses  would  speake 
with  Plautus  tongue,  if  they  would  speak  Latin :  so  I  say 
that  the  Muses  would  speak  with  Shakespeares  fine  filed 
phrase,  if  they  would  speake  English." 

^  At  thirty-four,  then,  Shakspere  had  pretty  clearly 
established  himself  as  a  poet,  as  a  dramatist,  and  as 
an  actor  ;  and,  in  the  opinion  of  Stratford  people,  as 
a  well-to-do,  influential  man  of  business  and  land- 
holder. 

'    Centurie  of  Prayse,  21-23. 


) 


16  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

In  these  characters  the  records  maintain  him  with 
little  change  for  above  ten  years  to  come.  In  1599 
two  of  his  Sonnets,  and  three  poems  from  Love's  La- 
hour  '«  Lost,  appeared  in  a  volume  called  the  Passionate 
Pilgrim,  ascribed  at  the  time  to  him,  but  otherwise 
probably  spurious.  In  1609  appeared  the  quarto  of 
the  Sonnets  as  we  have  them. 

To  pass  from  poems  to  plays,  in  1599  appeared  a 
fairly  complete  quarto  of  Romeo  and  Juliet.  In  1600, 
As  You  Like  It,  Henry  V.,  Much  Ado  About  Noticing, 
the  Second  Part  of  Henry  IV.,  the  Midsummer 
NighVs  Dream,  and  the  Merchant  of  Venice  were  en- 
tered in  the  Stationers'  Register,  and  all  of  these 
except  As  You  Like  It  were  published  in  quarto, — 
Henry  V.  without  his  name  ;  in  the  same  year  appeared 
anonymously  the  first  extant  quarto  of  Titus  Andro- 
nicus.  In  1602,  Twelfth  Night  was  acted;  the  Merry 
Wives  of  Windsor  was  entered  and  published ;  and  in 
the  same  year  were  entered  the  First  and  Second  Parts 
of  Henry  VI.  and  the  Revenge  of  Hamlet.  This  is 
believed  to  be  the  version  which  appeared  in  quarto 
in  1603  ;  the  full  text  of  Hamlet  appeared  in  1604. 
In  1607  King  Lear  was  entered  "  as  yt  was  played 
before  the  Kinges  Majestic  at  Whitehall  uppon  St 
Stephens  night  at  Christmas  last."  In  the  following 
year  it  appeared  in  two  separate  quartos,  on  the  title- 
pages  of  which  Shakspere's  name  is  printed  with  very 
marked  conspicuousness.  In  1608,  too,  Pericles  and 
Anthony  ^  Cleopatra  were  entered.  In  1609  Troylus 
^   Cressida  was  entered   and   twice   published ;   and 


SHAKSPEKE'S   LIFE  17 

Pericles,  too,  twice  api)eared  in  quarto.  This  was  the 
year,  we  may  remember,  in  which  the  Sonnets  ap- 
))eared.  From  this  time  on,  althougli  a  number  of 
the  foregoing  plays  were  reprinted  during  his  lifetime, 
no  new  work  of  his  is  known  to  have  been  either 
entered  or  printed  until  after  his  death ;  and  the  only 
one  which  appeared  before  the  folio  of  1623  was 
Othello,  entered  in  1621,  and  published  in  1622.  From 
these  facts  it  would  appear  that  his  popularity  as  a 
dramatist  was  at  its  height  in  1600 ;  and  that  at  least 
his  activity  diminished  after  1609. 

To  pass  from  his  works  to  his  acting,  he  became,  in 
1599,  a  partner  in  the  Globe  Theatre,  then  just  erected  ; 
and  his  company  performed  at  court  during  Christmas- 
tide,  in  1699, 1600,  and  1602.  It  has  been  inferred  by 
Mr.  Fleay  *  that  their  absence  from  court  in  1601  was 
connected  with  Essex's  rebellion.  It  is  possible  that  the 
play  concerning  Richard  II.,  performed  on  the  eve  of 
that  insurrection,  was  Shakspere's  ;  if  so,  the  Queen 
probably  had  reason  to  withhold  her  favor  from  him 
and  his  associates ;  but  the  matter  is  all  conjectural. 
Queen  Elizabeth  died  on  March  24th,  1603.  On  ]\Iay 
19th,  King  James  granted  a  license  to  Shakspere  and 
others  by  name,  to  perform  plays  and  to  be  called  the 
King's  Players.  The  company  in  question  gave  sev- 
eral plays  at  court  each  year  until  1609  ;  and  in  1604, 
on  the  occasion  of  the  King's  entry  into  London, 
Shakspere,  along  with  the  other  players,  was  granted 
four  yards  and  a  half  of  red  cloth.     During  the  years 

1  L>fe,  143-1-14 


18  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

in  question,  then,  he  was  professionally  at  the  height 
of  his  prosperity. 

The  records  of  his  private  afTairs  maintain  this 
conclusion.  In  1600  he  brought  an  action  for  £1 
against  a  certain  John  Clayton,  and  won  it ;  in  1602 
he  bought  one  hundred  and  seven  acres  of  land  neai* 
Stratford,  as  well  as  other  real  property  in  the  town  •,  in 
1604  there  came  another  small  action,  and  some  large 
and  small  purchases  of  land.  The  records,  in  short, 
show  him  constantly  and  punctiliously  thrifty  ;  and  as 
early  as  the  purchase  of  1602  he  was  legally  described 
as  "  Wm.  Shakespere  of  Stratford-uppon-Avon,  gen- 
tleman." This  description  occurs  a  few  months  after 
he  became  the  head  of  his  family ;  for  on  September 
8th,  1601,  the  year  of  the  Essex  conspiracy,  his  father 
was  buried.  In  1605,  his  fellow-player,  Augustine 
Piiillips,  bequeathed  him  "a  thirty-shilling  piece  in 
gold."  On  June  25th,  1607,  Shakspcre's  elder  daugh- 
ter, Susanna,  then  twenty-four  years  old,  was  married 
to  Dr.  John  Hall,  a  physician  of  Stratford;  on  Feb- 
ruary 21st,  1608,  Elizabeth  Hall,  his  grandchild,  was 
baptized.  Two  months  before,  his  youngest  brother, 
Edmund,  "  a  player,"  had  died  in  London,  and  had 
been  buried  in  S.  Saviour's,  Southwark.  On  Septem- 
ber 9th,  1608,  Shakspere's  mother  was  buried  at 
Stratford ;  on  October  16th,  he  stood  godfather  there 
to  one  William  Walker.  These  dry  facts  tell  us 
something.  Throughout  the  period  of  his  professional 
prosperity  he  was  demonstrably  strengthening  his 
position  as  a  local  personage  at  Stratford  ;  and  the 


SHAKSPERE'S  LIFE  19 

chances  seem  to  be  that  he  came  thither  in  person 
more  and  more. 

From  this  time  on,  what  records  touch  him  person- 
ally show  him  chiefly  at  Stratford.  In  1611,  to  be 
sure,  the  surprisingly  detailed  note-book  of  Dr.  Simon 
Forman  mentions  performances  of  Macbeth,  Cymheline, 
and  the  Winter's  Tale.  In  1613,  along  with  some 
older  plays,  the  Tempest  was  performed  at  court :  in 
the  same  year,  when  the  Globe  Theatre  was  burned, 
the  fire  started  from  a  discharge  of  cannon  in  a  play 
about  Henry  VIII.,  which  may  have  been  Shakspere's; 
and  certainly  in  the  same  year  he  bought,  and  mort- 
gaged, and  leased,  a  house  and  shop  in  Blackfriars, 
London.  What  attracts  one's  attention  more,  however, 
is  his  presence  in  the  country.  In  1610  he  bought 
more  land  from  the  Combes  ;  in  1611  he  subscribed  to 
a  fund  for  prosecuting  in  Parliament  a  bill  for  good 
roads  ;  in  1612,  described  as  "  William  Shackspeare, 
of  Stratford-uppon-Avon,  .  .  gentleman,"  he  joined  in 
a  suit  of  which  the  object  was  to  diminish  his  taxes : 
in  1614  he  received  a  legacy  of  £5  from  his  Strat- 
ford neighbor,  John  Combe  ;  in  1614,  too,  he  was 
deep  in  a  local  controversy  about  the  fencing  of  com- 
mons. Meanwhile  there  is  said  to  be  no  record 
directly  connecting  him  with  theatrical  life  after  1609, 
when  his  publication  ceased. 

In  view  of  this,  the  last  paragraph  of  the  Dedica- 
tion of  John  Webster's  White  Devil  ^  is  in  a  way 
significant :  — 

»  Centurie  of  Pray se,  100. 


20  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

** Detraction  is  the  sworne  friend  to  ignorance:  Foi 
mine  owne  part  I  have  ever  truly  cherisht  my  good  opinion 
of  other  mens  worthy  Labours,  especially  of  that  full  and 
haightned  stile  of  maister  Chapman :  The  labor'd  and 
understanding  workes  of  niaiste^^  Johnson:  The  no  lesse 
worth}^  composures  of  the  both  worthily  excellent  Maister 
Beaumont  &  Maister  Fletcher:  And  lastly  (without 
wrong  last  to  be  named)  the  right  happy  and  copious  in- 
dustry of  M..  Shakespeare,  M.  Decker,  &  M.  Heyivood, 
wishing  what  I  write  may  be  read  by  their  light:  Pro- 
testing, that,  in  the  strength  of  mine  owne  judgement,  I 
know  them  so  worthy,  that  though  I  rest  silent  in  my 
owne  worke,  yet  to  most  of  theirs  I  dare  (without  flattery) 
fix  that  of  Martiall. 

—  non  norunt,  Haec  monumenta  mori." 

Tills  was  written  in  1612.  The  first  play  of  Chap- 
man was  published  in  1598;  the  first  of  Heywood,  in 
1599  ;  the  first  of  Jonson  and  the  first  of  Dekker 
in  1600;  the  first  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  in 
1607.  Webster,  probably  a  greater  man  than  any 
of  these,  speaks  of  them  all,  in  his  first  words, 
as  traditional  models.  He  groups  Shakspere  with 
them ;  and  Shakspere  had  certainly  begun  his  work, 
as  a  rival  of  Greene  and  Peele  and  Marlowe,  years  be- 
fore any  of  these  others  except  perhaps  Dekker.  In 
1612  he  was  already,  in  a  way,  a  tradition. 

What  little  more  is  recorded  of  him  belongs  to 
the  year  1616.  On  January  25th,  his  will  was  pre- 
pared. On  February  10th,  his  younger  daughter, 
Judith,  married  Thomas  Quiney.  On  March  25th  he 
signed  his  will.     Just  one  month  later,  on  April  25th, 


SHAKSPERE'S   LIFE  21 

1616,  "Will.  Shakspere,  gent.,"  was  buried    in  the- 
church  of  Stratford. 

All  the  rest  of  the  story  —  how  he  died  on  his 
fifty-second  birthday,  how  undue  merry-making  had 
something  to  do  with  it,  how  he  made  a  doggerel 
epitaph  for  John  Combe,  and  so  on  —  is  mere  legend. 
Every  known  fact  we  have  before  us,  except  per- 
haps the  fact  that  the  editors  of  the  Centurie  of 
Prayse,  who  are  a  shade  over-eager,  have  discovered 
more  than  a  hundred^  allusions  to  Shakspere  between 
1592  and  1616.  At  first  sight,  the  record  seems 
very  meagre. 

On  reflection,  though,  it  tells  more  of  a  story  than 
at  first  seems  the  case.  The  son  of  a  country  trades- 
man who  was  beginning  to  improve  his  condition, 
Shakspere,  in  early  youth,  met  with  family  misfor- 
tune, and  made  at  best  an  imprudent  marriage. 
Until  the  age  of  twenty-three,  he  was  still  in  these 
circumstances.  At  twenty-eight  he  had  established 
himself  as  an  actor,  a  dramatist,  and  a  poet  in  Lon- 
don. At  thirty-two  he  had  begun  to  help  his 
father,  and  incidentally  the  family  name  of  Shakspere, 
back  into  local  consideration.  At  thirty-four  he  was 
a  landed  proprietor,  a  person  vvho  could  be  useful  to 
country  friends  visiting  London,  and  —  at  least  in 
the  opinion  of  Francis  Meres  —  a  first-rate  literary 
figure.  Till  forty-five  he  maintained  his  professional 
position,  constantly  strengthening  himself  as  a  land- 

'  lucluding  those  published  iu  F>efh  Allusions :  New  Shakspere 
Society,  1886. 


/ 


22  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

holder  meanwhile.  From  forty-five  to  fifty-two,  he 
was  a  country  gentleman  of  Stratford.  Prosaic 
enough  this  looks  at  first  sight ;  but,  to  whoever  will 
sympathetically  appreciate  the  motives  which  have 
made  Englishmen  what  Englishmen  have  been,  it  is 
not  without  its  heroic  side.  We  have  had  cant 
enough  about  snobbishness.  A  true-hearted  Eng- 
lishman  always  wants  to  die  a  gentleman  if  he  can ; 
and  here,  in  the  facts  of  Shakspere's  life,  we  have 
the  record  of  an  Englishman,  who,  from  a  position 
which  might  easily  have  lapsed  into  peasantry, 
worked  his  way,  in  the  end,  to  one  of  lasting  local 
dignity. 


Ill 


LITERATURE    AND    THE    THEATRE    IN    ENGLAND 

UNTIL   1587 

[The  best  popular  history  of  English  Literature  is  still  Stopford 
Brooke's  Primer.  The  best  popular  work  on  Elizabethan  Literature 
is  Saintsbury's ;  the  best  on  the  early  drama  is  Addington  Symonds's 
Shakspere's  Predecessors.  More  satisfactory  than  any  of  these,  as  far 
as  it  goes,  is  Frederick  Ryland's  Chronological  Outlines  of  English  Litera- 
ture. For  whoever  wishes  more  thorough  treatment  of  the  English 
stage,  Mr.  A.  W.  Ward's  History  of  English  Dramatic  Literature  is 
useful ;  and  Mr.  Fleay's  Chronicle  History  of  the  London  Stage,  and 
Biographical  Chronicle  of  the  English  Drama  are  very  valuable.] 

From  the  facts  we  have  just  considered,  it  is  clear 
that  in  1587  Shakspere  was  still  at  Stratford ;  and 
that  by  1592  he  was  already  so  established  a  dram- 
atist as  to  be  grouped  by  Robert  Greene  with  Peele 
and  Marlowe.  In  the  next  year,  1593,  the  publica- 
tion of  Venus  and  Adonis  brings  him  finally  before 
us  as  a  man  of  letters.  The  fact  that,  in  1587,  the 
Earl  of  Leicester's  players,  the  company  with  which 
he  was  later  associated,  paid  a  professional  visit  to 
Stratford,  has  led  some  people  to  surmise  that  when 
they  returned  to  London  they  took  him  along.  What- 
ever the  facts  were,  we  cannot  be  far  wrong  in  as- 
suming that  the  state  of  English  Literature  in  1587 
fairly  represents  what  Shakspere  found,  just  as  the 


24  AVJLLIAM   SIIAKSPERE 

state  of  things  in  1612  fairly  represents  what  Shaks- 
pere  left. 

His  literary  activity,  then,  his  productive  period,  we 
mav  assume  to  be  limited  to  twentv-five  years,  the  last 
sixteen  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  and  the  first  nine  of 
the  reign  of  James  I.  The  state  of  our  dramatic  lit- 
erature during  this  period,  and  to  a  great  degree  that 
of  English  poetry,  may  be  adequately  studied,  for  our 
purposes,  in  works  generally  assigned  to  him.  To  ap- 
preciate these,  however,  we  must  first  glance  at  the 
state  of  English  Literature  which  immediately  pre< 
cedes  them. 

Putting  aside  Chaucer,  who  was  already  as  solitary 
a  survival  of  a  time  long  past  as  he  is  to-day,  we  may 
broadly  say  that  during  the  first  twenty-nine  years  of 
Queen  Elizabeth's  reign,  English  Literature  contained 
and  produced  hardly  anything  permanent;  a  few 
lyrics,  like  Wyatt's  Forget  not  Yet,  or  Lyly's  Cupid 
and  Campaspe,  still  to  be  found  in  any  standard 
collection,  may  be  said  to  comprise  the  whole 
literature  of  that  period  which  has  survived.  In  a 
traditional  way,  however,  certain  writers  of  the  time 
remain  familiar ;  without  knowing  quite  what  their 
work  is  like,  people  in  general  have  a  nebulous  idea 
that  the  work  exists,  and  at  least  formerly  was  of  some 
importance.  The  earliest  of  these  writers  do  not 
strictly  belong  to  the  time  of  Elizal)eth  at  all.  Both 
Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  and  the  Earl  of  Surrey,  who  are 
commonly  regarded  as  the  pioneers  of  our  modern 
literature,  died  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VHL     Their 


ENGLISH   LITEKATURE   UNTIL   1587  25 

writings,  however,  remained  chiefly  in  manuscript 
until  1557,  the  year  before  the  accession  of  Elizabeth. 
In  that  year,  together  with  a  considerable  number  of 
lyrics  by  other  and  later  men,  their  songs  and  sonnets 
were  published  in  Tottel's  MiHcellany.  With  that  pul)- 
lication,  modern  English.  Literature,  we  may  say,  first 
became  accessible  to  the  general  public. 

By  that  time,  as  a  hasty  glance  at  the  Miscellan//, 
will  suffice  to  show,  the  mov'ement  begun  fifteen 
or  twenty  years  before  by  Wyatt  and  Surrey  had 
already  progressed  considerably.  Wyatt  was  a  gen- 
tleman, an  ambassador,  a  statesman ;  Surrey,  eldest 
son  of  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  was  a  man  of  the  highest 
rank  and  fashion.  Wyatt,  the  elder  by  fourteen 
years,  was  by  far  the  more  serious  character.  The 
fact  that  nowadays  they  are  commonly  grouped 
together  is  due  not  so  much  to  any  close  personal 
relation,  as  to  the  accident  that  their  works  were 
first  printed  in  the  same  volume.  It  is  justified  his- 
torically, however,  by  the  relation  which  their  work 
bears  to  what  precedes  and  to  what  follows.  These 
courtiers,  these  men  whose  lives  were  passed  in  the 
most  distinguished  society  of  their  time,  found  not 
only  the  literature,  but  even  the  language,  of  their 
native  England  in  a  state  which,  compared  with  the 
contemporary  French  or  Italian,  may  fairly  be  called 
barbarous.  Each  alike  did  his  best  to  imitate  or  to 
reproduce  in  English  the  civilized  literary  forms  al- 
ready prevalent  on  the  Continent.  Each,  for  example, 
translated  sonnets  of  Petrarch ;  each  made  original 


26  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

sonnets  after  the  manner  of  that  master ;  and  Sur- 
rey,  among  other  things,  was  the  first  to  use  English 
blank  verse,  in  a  careful,  and  by  no  means  ineffec- 
tive, translation  of  two  books  of  the  vEneid.  Each, 
in  short,  made  a  considerable  number  of  linguistic 
and  metrical  experiments ;  and  neither  seems  to 
have  thought  of  publication.  Manuscript  copies  of 
their  verses  were  multiplied  among  their  private 
friends.  A  fashion  was  started,  until  at  last  the 
ability  to  play  gracefully  with  words  became  almost 
as  essential  to  the  equipment  of  an  Elizabethan  gen- 
tleman as  the  ability  to  ride  or  to  fence.  As  a 
rule,  however,  these  men  of  fashion  followed  the 
example  of  Wyatt  and  Surrey  to  the  end.  They  im- 
proved the  power  and  the  flexibility  of  the  language 
surprisingly  ;  but  they  did  not  publish.  In  1586,  for 
example.  Sir  Philip  Sidney  died ;  the  Arcadia,  the 
first  of  his  published  works,  did  not  appear  till  1590. 
As  late  as  1598,  too,  we  may  remember  that,  accord- 
ing to  Meres,  the  "  sugred  sonnets  "  of  Shakespere, 
who  was  by  no  means  a  man  of  rank,  followed  the 
fashion  in  being  reserved  for  his  private  friends.  In 
1587,  then,  one  may  safely  say  that  for  above  thirty 
years  a  certain  graceful  poetic  culture  had  been  the 
fashion  ;  that  its  chief  conscious  object  —  so  far  as  it 
had  any  —  was  to  civilize  a  barbarous  language  ;  that 
it  delighted  in  oddity  and  novelty,  and  that  it  inclined 
to  disdain  publication. 

There  was  no  want  of  publication,  however.     The 
prose  books  of  Roger  Ascham,  already  rather  anti- 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE   UNTIL   1587  27 

qiiatcd,  proved  that  a  scholarly  man  could  write  very 
charmingly  in  English  prose.  Aschani  was  tutor  to 
both  Lady  Jane  Grey  and  Queen  Elizabeth.  He  pub- 
lished a  book  on  archery,  and  another  on  education, 
which  are  still  pleasant  to  read ;  and  he  intended  to 
write  one  on  cock-fighting,  which  might  have  been 
more  amusing  than  either  of  the  others.  Again,  Foxe's 
great  Acts  ayicl  Monuments,  traditionally  called  the 
Book  of  Martyrs,  was,  from  1563,  as  generally  acces- 
sible as  was  the  early  version  of  the  English  Bible. 
Both  of  these  naturally  concerned  themselves  little 
with  literary  form  ;  Foxe  was  so  grimly  in  earnest 
that  his  views  still  affect  the  opinion  held  by  English- 
speai\ing  people  concerning  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church.  Incidentally,  however,  he  proved  with  what 
tremendous  effect  the  English  language  might  be 
used  for  serious  narrative.  There  were  increasing 
numbers  of  translations  from  the  classics,  too,  of 
which  the  most  generally  remembered  now  are  prob- 
ably Golding's  Ovid  and  North's  Plutarch.  There 
were  popular  translations,  as  well,  of  less  serious 
foreign  literature,  of  which  the  most  familiar  in  tra- 
dition is  Faynter's  Palace  of  Pleasure,  a  collection 
of  tales  largely  from  Boccaccio.  These  translations, 
from  classic  tongues  or  from  foreign,  were  alike  in 
their  object  of  supplying  to  a  people  whose  curiosity  was 
awakened  material  that  should  for  the  moment  have 
the  charm  of  novelty.  Novelty,  too,  was  what  gave  a 
charm  hardly  yet  exhausted  to  those  records  of  ex- 
ploration and   discovery  which  are  best  typified   by 


28  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

Hakluyt's  Voyages.  By  these,  also,  a  sentiment  of 
patriotism  was  alike  stimulated  and  gratified ;  a  state 
of  things,  which,  in  a  less  stimulating  form,  was  repro- 
duced by  such  historical  chronicles  as  those  of  Stowe 
and  of  Holinshed. 

Decidedly  the  most  notable  publication  for  the 
moment,  however,  was  one  which  in  its  day  was  the 
most  popular  book  in  English,  and  which  was  subse- 
quently so  completely  neglected  that  for  a  century  or 
more  it  was  hardly  known  to  be  in  existence.  This 
was  John  Lyly's  Uuphues,  first  published  in  1579, 
and  four  times  republished  within  six  years.  In  1587, 
accordingly,  its  popularity  had  hardly  begun  to  wane. 
Professedly  a  novel,  this  book  has  no  plot  to  speak  of, 
and  does  not  pretend  to  develop  character,  or  either 
fantastically  or  plausibly  to  describe  any  real  or  imagi- 
nary state  of  life.  It  does  pretend  to  be  aphoristic ; 
but  the  aphorisms  it  formulates  are  blamelessly  ob- 
vious throughout.  In  none  of  the  generally  essential 
traits  of  popular  fiction,  then,  does  Euphues  show 
a  trace  of  such  excellence  as  should  account  for  its 
popularity.  The  secret  of  this  is  to  be  sought  wholly 
in  its  formal  style.  This  style,  which  is  said  by  mod- 
ern critics  to  be  closely  imitated  from  the  Spanish, 
is  probably  the  most  elaborately,  fantastically,  obvi- 
ously affected  in  the  English  language.  To  any  mod- 
ern reader,  in  spite  of  a  certain  prettiness  of  phrase 
and  rhythm,  it  is  persistently  and  emptily  tedious ; 
to  the  Elizabethan  public,  on  the  other  hand,  it  was 
clearly,  for  a  good  while,  completely  fascinating.     It 


ENGLISH   LITERATURE   UNTIL    15b7  29 

not  only  set  a  formal  fashion  of  expression  which 
was  palpable  for  years  in  English  prose,  and  is  said 
greatly  to  have  iniiucnced  actual  conversation ;  it 
gave  our  language  the  word  "euphuism,"  which  re- 
mains to  this  day  a  generic  term  for  saccharine  liter- 
ary affectation.  When  what  seems  mere  affectation 
has  such  marked  effect,  it  becomes  historically  im- 
portant; to  understand  the  period  to  which  it  ap- 
pealed, we  must  make  ourselves  somehow  feel  its 
charm.  In  the  case  of  Euphues  this  is  not  an  easy 
task :  actually  to  feel  its  charm  is  almost  impossible. 
To  appreciate  wherein  its  old  charm  lay,  however,  is 
not  so  hard  as  at  first  one  fears  ;  from  beginning  to 
end,  the  book  phrases  everything — no  matter  how 
simple  —  in  the  most  elaborately  unexpected  way  that 
Lyly,  who  was  perhaps  the  most  ingenious  writer 
known  to  English  literature,  could  devise.  The  only 
kind  of  taste  to  which  its  far-fetched  allusions,  its 
thin  juvenile  pedantry,  its  elaborate  circumlocutions, 
its  endless  balance  and  alliteration,  can  appeal  is  a 
taste  which  incessantly  craves  verbal  novelty.  Were 
there  no  other  proof  than  the  popularity  of  Euphues 
affords,  there  would  be  proof  enough  that,  in  1587, 
the  one  thing  which  the  literary  and  fashionable 
public  of  England  most  admired  was  a  new,  palpably 
clever  turn  of  phrase. 

If  further  proof  were  demanded,  however,  the  next 
piece  of  evidence  might  be  Spenser's  Shephenrs  Cal- 
endar, and  his  correspondence  with  Gabriel  Harvey 
concerning  English   versifying.      These    two  works, 


b'O  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

exactly  contemporary  with  Uuphues,  were  almost 
all  that  Spenser  had  as  yet  published.  Not  a  line 
of  the  Faerie  Queene,  or  of  the  Amoretti,  or  of  the 
lesser  verse  by  which  he  is  now  known,  was  as  yet 
before  the  public  ;  nor  was  there  yet  in  print  a  line 
of  either  Bacon,  Marlowe,  Sidney,  Drayton,  Ralegh, 
Daniel,  Chapman,  Hooker,  Dekker,  Middleton,  Hey- 
wood,  or  Ben  Jonson.  Elizabethan  Literature,  as  we 
now  understand  the  term,  was  still  a  thing  of  the 
future. 

To  sum  up  this  necessarily  hasty  review :  in  1587, 
English  Literature,  which  was  between  forty  and 
fifty  years  old,  consisted  in  the  first  place  of  increas- 
ingly successful  efforts  to  reduce  to  literary  form  a 
hitherto  barbarous  language,  and  in  the  second,  of 
such  technical  feats  of  skill  with  this  new  vehicle  of 
expression  as  were  bound  by  ingenious  novelty  to 
please  both  cultivated  and  popular  fancy.  Besides 
these,  to  be  sure,  it  contained  a  fair  amount  of  pass- 
able translation  from  classical  and  foreign  authors, 
and  an  increasing  amount  of  sometimes  dry  and 
sometimes  vigorously  effective  narrative,  generally 
historical.  In  a  word,  the  curiosity  of  England  was 
aroused  ;  whatever,  in  substance  or  in  form,  satisfied 
curiosity  was  welcome ;  and  among  the  more  fashion- 
able classes  this  passion  for  curious  novelty  took  the 
form  of  inexhaustible  appetite  for  verbal  ingenuity. 

So  much  for  what  was  then  recognized  as  litera- 
ture, —  what  was  circulated  in  manuscript  among 
people  of  fashion,   and   what  found  its  way,   either 


THE  THEATRE    UNTIL   1587  31 

directly  or  surreptitiously,  into  print.  Along  with  this 
there  was  beginning  to  flourish  a  distinct  school  of 
literature  which  as  yet  had  hardly  been  recognized 
as  such.  This  was  the  theatre.  From  time  irame« 
morial  something  like  a  popular  drama  had  flourished 
in  England.  The  earliest  form  in  which  we  know  it 
is  the  Miracle  Plays,  which  were  popular  dramatic 
presentations,  often  in  startlingly  contemporary 
terms,  of  Scriptural  stories,  originally  produced  by 
the  clergy,  and  always  more  or  less  under  church 
supervision.  These  were  followed  by  what  are  called 
"  Moralities,"  where  actors  personifying  various  virtues 
and  vices  would  go  through  some  very  simple  dra- 
matic action,  usually  enlivened  by  the  pranks  of 
"  Iniquity  "  or  some  other  Vice.^  Then  came  similar 
productions,  called  "  Interludes,"  which  differed 
from  the  Moralities  only  in  pretending  to  deal  with 
less  abstract  personages.  The  Miracle  Plays,  which 
persisted  at  least  well  into  the  Sixteenth  Century, 
were  generally  performed  on  large  portable  stages, 
wheeled  through  the  streets  like  the  "  floats "  in  a 
modern  procession ;  the  actors  were  generally  the 
members  of  the  local  guilds,  each  one  of  which  would 
traditionally  have  in  charge  its  own  part  of  the  Scrip- 
ture story  and  its  own  travelling  stage.  The  Mo- 
ralities and   Interludes,   on    the   other   hand,   which 

*  These  old  Moralities  act  better  than  you  would  suppose.  One 
given  verbatim  not  long  ago,  though  acted  by  amateurs  who  were  all 
friends  of  the  audience,  had  enough  dramatic  force  to  hold  attention 
like  a  good  modern  play. 


'32  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 


required  hardly  any  stage  setting,  might  be  played 
anywhere  —  in  an  inn-yard,  in  a  gentleman's  hall, 
in  some  open  square.  While  sometimes  performed 
by  such  occasional  actors  as  always  kept  charge  of 
the  Miracle  Plays,  the  Moralities  and  Interludes 
tended  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  strolling  players  and 
such  other  half-artistic  vagrants  as  are  sure  to  exist 
anywhere.  The  mountebanks  whom  one  may  still 
see  here  and  there,  at  country  fairs  or  in  the  train 
of  quack  doctors,  preserve,  with  little  change,  the 
aspect  of  things  in  which  the  English  drama  grew. 

When  the  classical  scholarship  of  the  Renaissance 
began  to  declare  itself  in  England,  it  attempted,  as 
in  other  countries,  to  revive  something  resembling 
the  Roman  stage.  In  Ralph  Roister  Doister  and 
in  G-ammer  Giirton^s  Needle  we  have  examples  of 
efforts,  at  once  human  and  scholarly,  to  civilize  the 
English  theatre.  In  Gorboduc,  the  first  English  work 
In  which  blank  verse  is  used  for  dramatic  purposes, 
we  have  a  conscientious  effort,  on  the  part  of  schol- 
arly people,  to  produce  in  English  a  tragedy  which 
should  emulate  what  were  then  deemed  the  divine 
excellences  of  Seneca.  These  efforts,  essentially 
similar  to  those  which  until  the  present  century  con- 
trolled the  development  of  the  theatre  in  France, 
were  very  pleasing  to  the  learned  few  ;  witness  the 
familiar  passage  aljout  the  theatre  in  Sir  Philip 
Sidney's  Defence  of  Poesy.  On  the  other  hand, 
there  is  little  evidence  that  they  ever  appealed  much 
to   the   popular   fancy,  which   certainly  persisted  in 


THE   THEATRE   UNTIL   1587  33 

enjoying  the  wholly  unscholarly  traditions  of  Mir- 
acles, Moralities,  and  Interludes.  These  permitted  in 
matters  theatrical  a  range  of  conventional  freedom, — 
a  serene  disregard  of  limitations  either  of  time  or  of 
place,  a  bold  mixture  of  high  matters  and  low,  serious 
and  comic,  spiritual  and  obscene,  —  which,  to  any 
cultivated  taste,  was  quite  as  barbarous  as  were  the 
lintjuistic  and  metrical  crudities  reduced  to  formal 
civilization  by  the  literary  successors  of  Wyatt  and 
Surrey.  For  a  while  it  looked  as  if  the  theatre  of 
the  people  would  permanently  separate  itself  from 
aH  serious  literary  tradition. 
/^  At  least  from  1576,  however,  there  were  regular 
theatres  in  London.  To  a  modern  mind,  though,  that 
very  term  is  misleading.  An  Elizabethan  theatre, 
a  structure  adapted  to  conventions  which  had  arisen 
among  strolling  players,  was  very  unlike  a  theatre  of 
the  present  day.  At  least  the  pit  was  open  to  the 
sky;  there  was  no  scenery  in  the  modern  sense  of 
the  word ;  there  was  no  proscenium,  no  curtain ;  and 
the  more  fashionable  part  of  the  audience  sat  in 
chairs  on  either  side  of  the  stage,  smoking  pipes  after 
tobacco  came  into  fashion,  eating  fruit,  and,  if  they 
saw  fit,  making  game  of  the  performance.  Tlie 
actors,  meanwhile,  invariably  male,  —  for  no  woman 
appeared  on  the  English  stage  until  after  the  Resto- 
ration, —  appeared  with  what  dignity  they  could  be- 
tween these  two  groups  of  spectators  ;  and  whatever 
the  period  of  the  play  they  were  performing,  —  clas- 

^sical,  mediaeval,  or  contemporary, —  they  always  wore 

3 


34  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

gorgeous  clothes  of  recent  fashion,  perhaps  discarded 
court  finery  bought  second-hand,  and  the  like.  Al- 
together, the  nearest  modern  approach  to  the  stage 
conditions  of  an  Elizabethan  theatre  is  to  be  found 
in  those  of  the  Chinese  theatres  which  may  some- 
times be  discovered  in  the  Chinese  quarters  of 
American  cities.  It  was  for  such  a  stage  as  this 
that  all  the  plays  of  Shakspere  were  written. 

Decidedly  before  1587,  however,  this  unpromising 
place  had  begun  to  produce  plays  still  of  some  in- 
terest, at  least  historically.  Three  names  of  that 
period  are  remembered  in  all  histories  of  English 
Literature,  —  the  names  of  Robert  Greene,  George 
Peele,  and  Christopher  Marlowe.  These  men,  all 
under  thirty  years  of  age,  had  all  been  educated 
at  one  of  the  universities,  and  were  all  black  sheep. 
Greene,  for  example,  is  known  to  have  deserted  his 
wife,  and  to  have  lived  with  a  woman  named  Ball, 
whose  brother  was  hanged  at  Tyburn ;  Peele,  whether 
rightly  or  wrongly,  was,  almost  in  his  own  time,  made 
the  hero  of  a  crudely  obscene  jest-book ;  Marlowe  was 
killed  at  the  age  of  twenty-nine,  in  a  tavern  brawl. 
Yet,  by  1587,  all  three  of  these  men  had  produced 
plays  of  which  any  reader  of  Shakspere  may  form  an 
idea  by  glancing  at  Henry  VI.,  Richard  III.,  and 
Richard  II.  There  is  much  argument  among  critics 
as  to  whether  a  considerable  part  of  Henry  VI.  may 
not  actually  have  been  written  by  one  or  more  of  the 
three,  and  as  to  whether  Richard  III  be  not  rather 
Marlowe's  work  than  Shakspere's ;  while  Richard  11., 


THE  THEATRE    UNTIL   1587  35 

though  generally  admitted  to  be  Shakspere's  own,  is 
undoubtedly  written  in  Marlowe's  manner.  All  three 
of  these  men  combined  good  education  with  graceless 
lives  and  active  wits.  Historically  they  mark  a  fusion 
between  the  traditions  of  culture  and  those  of  the 
popular  theatre.  Far  removed  as  their  work  is  from 
the  pseudo-classic  tendency  so  much  admired  by 
Sidney,  it  is  just  as  far  removed  from  the  crudely 
popular  Interludes  and  Moralities  ;  and  in  technical 
style  —  in  freedom  and  fluency  of  verse  —  it  is  much 
better  than  anything  before  it.  Some  of  Greene's 
lyrics  are  thoroughly  good ;  at  least  in  David  and 
Bethsabe,  Peele's  work  shows  signs  of  lasting  dra- 
matic merit ;  ^  while  Marlowe  not  only  made  blank 
verse  the  permanent  vehicle  of  English  tragedy,  but 
actually  expressed  in  dramatic  form  a  profound  sense 
of  tragic  fact. 

Tamburlaine,  to  be  sure,  the  first  of  Marlowe's 
tragedies,  is  assigned  to  this  very  year,  1587  ;  and  is 
commonly  spoken  of  as  if  chiefly  remarkable  for  its 
use  of  blank  verse,  finally  delivering  the  stage  "  from 
jigging  veins  of  rhyming  mother-wits,"  and  for  such 
indubitably  bombastic  passages  as  "  Holla !  ye  pam- 
per'd  jades  of  Asia  !  "  ^  In  point  of  fact,  however,  it 
is  still  more  notable  for  real  power.  This  shows  itself 
clearly  in  occasional  passages,  like  the  famous  one  on 
beauty  :  ^  — 

^  See  particularly  the  notable  scene  of  the  drunken  loyal  Urias  and 
the  perfidious  David. 

3  Part  I.  Act  IV.  sc.  iii.  a  i>art  I.  Act  V.  so,  ii. 


36  WILLIAM   SIIAKSPERE 

"  If  all  the  pens  that  ever  poets  held 
Had  fed  the  feeling  of  their  masters'  thoughts, 
And  every  sweetness  that  inspir'd  their  hearts, 
Their  minds,  and  muses  on  admired  themes  ; 
If  all  the  heavenly  quintessence  they  still 
From  their  immortal  flowers  of  poesy, 
Wherein,  as  in  a  mirror,  we  perceive 
The  highest  reaches  of  a  human  wit  ; 
If  these  had  made  one  poem's  period. 
And  all  combin'd  in  beauty's  worthiness, 
Yet  should  there  hover  in  their  restless  heads 
One  thought,  one  grace,  one  wonder,  at  the  least, 
Which  into  words  no  virtue  can  digest." 

Still  more  clearly,  however,  the  lasting  power  of 
Marlowe  shows  itself  in  his  whole  conception  even  of 
Tamhurlahu.  If  we  will  but  accept  the  conventions, 
and  forget  them  ;  if  we  will  admit  the  monotony  of 
end-stopped  lines  and  the  sonorous  bombast  which 
delighted  the  crude  lyric  appetite  of  early  Elizabethan 
playgoers ;  if  we  will  only  ask  ourselves  what  all  this 
was  meant  to  express,  we  shall  find  in  Tamhurlaine 
itself  a  profound,  lasting,  noble  sense  of  the  great 
human  truth  reiterated  by  the  three  later  plays  ^ 
which  Marlowe  has  left  us.  Like  these,  Tamhurlaine 
expresses,  in  grandly  symbolic  terms,  the  eternal 
tragedy  inherent  in  the  conflict  between  human  aspira- 
tion and  human  power.  No  poet  ever  felt  this  more 
genuinely  than  Marlowe  ;  none  ever  expressed  it  more 
firmly  or  more  constantly.  By  1587,  then,  the  English 
stage  had  already  become  the  seat  not  only  of  very 
animated  play-writing,  and  of  charming  lyric  verse, 

1  Dr.  Faustus,  the  Jew  of  Malt n,  and  Edward  II. 


THE   THEATRE   UNTIL   1587  37 

but  actually,  though  unobserved,  of  noble  philosophic 
poetry. 

It  is  with  these  men,  and  other  men  like  them,  that 
Shakspere  is  grouped  by  Robert  Greene  in  the  Groats- 
u'orth  of  Wit,  which  we  remember  belongs  to  1592, 
Perhaps  even  more  than  tlieirs,  however,  the  dramatic 
work  of  John  Lyly  marks  the  permanent  divergence 
of  English  taste  from  the  pseudo-classic  principles 
commended  by  Sidney.  Lyly's  Uuphues,  as  we  have 
seen,  was  in  its  day  the  most  popular  book  in  the 
English  language.  It  appeared  in  1579 ;  the  next 
year  appeared  its  sequel,  Euphues  and  his  England. 
Like  the  play-writing  roysterers  at  whom  we  have  just 
glanced,  Lyly  was  a  university  man ;  unlike  them, 
he  seems  to  have  had  a  strong  tendency  to  respect- 
able life.  For  some  ten  years  after  the  success  of 
Euphues  there  is  evidence  that  he  hung  about  the 
court,  seeking  office  or  some  such  advancement ; 
and  during  these  ten  years,  his  literary  work  took 
a  dramatic  form.  Written  rather  for  court  pag- 
eants, or  for  performance  by  choir-boys,  than  for  the 
popular  stage,  Lyly's  plays  seem  nowadays  thin  and 
amateurish  ;  they  quite  lack  the  robust,  unconscious 
carelessness  of  the  regular  Elizabethan  theatre.  Like 
EiiphueSjhowevev,  they  are  distinctly  things  of  fashion  ; 
as  such,  they  prove  that,  in  theatrical  affairs  as  well 
as  in  popular,  fashionable  taste  had  taken  a  definitely 
romantic  turn.  While  Lyly  threw  classic  form  to  the 
winds,  caring  as  little  for  the  unities  as  the  wildest 
scribbler   of    Moralities,   a   thousand    allusions    and 


38  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

turns  of  thought  and  phrase  prove  that  he  had  read 
pretty  deep  in  the  classics,  and  read  for  fun.  He  was 
romantic  in  form,  then,  not  for  want  of  knowing  better, 
but  as  a  matter  of  deliberate  taste  or  policy.  As  such, 
too,  he  was  not  only  persistently  euphuistic  in  style, 
but  he  was  also  constantly  experimental  in  matters  of 
mere  stage-business.  In  his  comedies,  for  example, 
one  finds,  for  the  first  time  in  English,  such  fan- 
tastically ingenious  plays  on  words  and  repartee  as 
nowadays,  reaching  their  acme  in  Much  Ado  About 
Nothing,  are  commonly  thought  peculiar  to  Shakspere. 
Again,  perhaps  influenced  by  the  fact  that  all  his 
players  were  male,  and  consequently  ill  at  ease  in 
skirts,  he  first  introduced  on  the  English  stage  the 
device  so  repeatedly  used  by  Shakspere  of  disguis- 
ing his  heroine  as  a  man.  Throughout,  in  short, 
with  frankly  persistent  ingenuity,  these  light,  grace- 
ful, fantastic  plays  of  Lyly's  appeal,  like  the  style  of 
JSuphues,  to  a  taste  which  delights  above  all  else  in 
clever,  apparently  civilized  novelty. 

Such,  in  general,  was  the  state  of  the  English 
stage  in  1587.  Committed  to  the  still  untrammelled 
freedom  of  romantic  form,  it  displayed  in  its  fashion- 
able aspect  and  in  its  popular  alike  every  evidence  of 
appealing  to  an  insatiable  taste  for  novelty.  The  very 
simplicity  of  its  material  conditions,  however,  combined 
with  the  prevalent  literary  taste  of  the  time  to  make  the 
actual  novelties  it  offered  to  its  public  principally  ver- 
bal. With  none  of  the  modern  distractions  of  scenery 
or  of  realistic  costume,  with  hardly  any  mechanical  help 


THE   THEATRE   UNTIL    1587  39 

to  the  temporary  illusion  which  must  always  be  dear  to 
a  theatre-going  heart,  an  Elizabethan  audience  found  its 
attention  centred,  to  a  degree  now  hardly  imaginable, 
on  the  actual  words  of  the  play.  While  certain  con- 
ventional kinds  of  drama,  then,  which  may  be  discussed 
best  in  connection  with  the  actual  works  of  Shakspere, 
were  beginning  to  define  themselves,  all  had  in  com- 
mon the  trait  of  a  constantly  ingenious,  experimental 
phrasing,  to  be  appreciated  nowadays  only  when  you 
can  force  yourself  into  the  mood  of  an  every-day 
theatre-goer  who  should  enjoy  a  new  turn  of  language 
as  heartily  as  a  modern  playgoer  would  enjoy  a  new 
popular  tune.  What  now  appeals  to  us  in  Marlowe's 
Tamhurlaine  is  the  profound  tragic  feeling  which 
underlies  it ;  in  its  own  day  what  made  it  popular  was 
the  ranting  sonorousness  of  its  verse. 

In  all  but  purely  lyric  style,  clearly  enough,  the 
taste  of  1587  was  still  rather  childishly  crude.  With 
lyric  verse  the  case  was  different.  The  fashion  of 
verbal  experiment,  which  had  persisted  since  the 
time  of  Wyatt,  combined  with  the  thin  melody  of 
contemporary  music  not  only  to  make  words  do  much 
of  the  essentially  musical  work  of  which  modern  song- 
writers are  relieved  by  our  enormous  musical  develop- 
ment, but  also  to  develop  the  positive  lyric  power  of 
the  language  to  a  degree  which  has  never  been  sur- 
passed. Wyatt  himself,  we  have  seen,  wrote  Forget 
not  Yet;  John  Lyly  wrote  Cupid  and  Campaspe. 
What  delights  one  in  these,  and  in  the  hundreds  of 
songs  for  which  wc  must  here  let  them  be  typical,  is 


40  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

not  that  they  mean  much,  but  that,  with  indefinable 
subtlety,  they  are  so  exquisitely  musical.  To  such 
effects  as  theirs  the  public  of  1587  was  sensitive  to  a 
degree  now  hard  to  imagine ;  the  purity  of  a  sense  of 
beautv  new  to  a  whole  nation  had  not  yet  been  cor- 
rupted.  By  1587,  then,  the  Elizabethan  lyric  was 
almost  at  its  best.  Fantastic  as  the  statement  seems, 
though,  it  is  probably  true  that  the  ultimate  secret  of 
lyric  beauty  —  the  only  permanent  effect  which  Eliza- 
bethan literature  had  as  yet  achieved  —  is  identical 
with  that  which  made  Eupliues  so  popular.  The 
lyric  poet  is  technically  the  most  ingenious  conceiv- 
able juggler  with  words. 

For  all  their  common  verbal  ingenuity,  however, 
and  their  common,  eager  endeavor  to  carry  out  the 
work  begun  by  Wyatt  and  lastingly  to  civilize  what 
had  seemed  a  wildly  barbarous  language,  the  pure 
men  of  letters,  for  whom  Sidney  and  Lyly  may  stand 
representative,  differed  very  widely  in  private  consider- 
ation from  the  men  of  the  theatre,  such  as  Greene,  or 
Peele,  or  Marlowe.  As  a  class  the  former  were  respect- 
able or  better ;  as  a  class  the  latter  were  disreputable. 
For  the  moment  fashion  favored  polite  literary  effort 
to  a  degree  unusual  in  human  history ;  the  theatre, 
meanwhile,  was  what  the  theatre  always  has  been 
everywhere,  —  the  centre  not  only  of  artistic  activity, 
but  also  of  organized  vice. 

We  touch  here  on  a  delicate  matter,  which  of  late 
it  has  been  the  fashion  to  ignore.  By  rather  deliber- 
ately ignoring  it,  however,  most  modern  critics  have 


THE   THEATRE   UNTIL   1587  4J 

failed  to  make  clear  the  actual  circumstances  in  which 
Shakspere  found  himself  when  he  came  to  London, 
Beyond  doubt  there  were  good  and  sturdy  men  con- 
nected with  the  Elizabethan  stage,  just  as  good  and 
sturdy  people  may  always  be  found  among  stage-folk 
everywhere.  Beyond  doubt,  the  remaining  fragments 
of  Elizabethan  dramatic  writing,  even  if  we  throw  out 
of  our  consideration  the  works  of  Shakspere,  comprise 
much,  indeed  most,  of  the  noblest  poetry  of  their 
time.  Equally  beycmd  doubt,  however,  the  Elizabethan 
theatre  of  1587  was  not  a  socially  respectable  place, 
and  Elizabethan  theatrical  people  —  the  Bohemians 
of  a  society  where  there  was  no  alternative  between 
formal  res[)ectability  and  the  full  license  of  profes- 
sional crime  —  were  very  low  company. 

As  early  as  1579,  one  Stephen  Gosson,  then  an 
ardent  Puritan,  dedicated  to  Sir  Philip  Sidney  an 
attack  on  the  immorality  of  poetry  and  of  the  stage, 
under  the  apt  title,  the  School  of  Abuse.  Sidney,  who 
had  not  authorized  the  dedication,  evinced  his  dis- 
pleasure by  coming  to  the  rescue  with  his  Defence  oj 
Poesy.  Gosson  was  certainly  scurrilous,  and  modern 
critics  have  usually  confmed  themselves  to  this  aspect 
of  his  work,  which  they  attribute  to  the  fact  that  he 
himself  had  once  been  little  better  than  one  of  the 
wicked  ;  it  is  said  that  he  had  unsuccessfully  tried  to 
write  plays.  Sidney's  Defence  remains  a  beautiful,  ele- 
vated piece  of  English  prose,  full  of  a  peculiar  quality 
which  faintly  suggests  what  the  charm  of  Sidney's 
actual    personality    must    have    been.     For    all    this, 


42  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

however,  for  all  the  snarling  vulgarity  of  Gosson  and 
the  noble  amenity  of  Sidney,  there  is  an  aspect  in 
which  Gosson  rather  than  Sidney  is  in  the  right. 
Wherever  an  organized  theatre  develops  itself,  one  is 
sure  to  find  along  with  this  centre  of  more  or  less 
serious  art  an  equally  organized  centre  of  moral  cor- 
ruption. Without  the  Elizabethan  theatre,  to  be  sure, 
we  could  never  have  had  Shakspere  ;  yet  the  very 
forces  which  produced  Shakspere  were  producing  at 
the  same  time  a  growing  state  of  social  degradation. 
To  our  minds,  at  a  distance  of  three  hundred  years, 
the  Elizabethan  theatre  seems  chiefly  the  source  from 
which  has  come  to  us  a  noble  school  of  poetry.  To 
Elizabethan  Puritans,  to  the  very  men  whose  blood 
still  runs  in  the  veins  of  New  England,  the  Elizabethan 
poets  were  the  panders  who  kept  full  those  schools  of 
vice,  the  play-houses.  Nor  can  all  the  patronizing 
amenity  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  blinding  himself  like 
other  apologists  to  what  he  did  not  choose  to  see,  blind 
us  to  the  fact  that  the  evils  which  Gosson  so  hatefully 
attacked  were  real,  lasting,  and  bound  to  be  the  price 
which  any  society  must  pay  for  the  enjoyment  of  a 
professional  stage. 

In  Gosson's  time,  too,  this  state  of  things  affected 
the  personal  life  of  theatrical  people  rather  more 
than  usual.  They  were  then  just  emerging  from 
the  condition  of  strolling  players.  None  of  them 
were  yet  rich  enough  to  emerge,  as  Shakspere 
emerged  thirty  years  later,  into  a  solidly  respectable 
social  station.     We  have  seen  what  sort  of  life  Greene 


THE   THEATRE    UNTIL   1587  43 

lived,  and  Peele,  and  Marlowe.  Greene,  like  Marlowe, 
died  in  a  public-house,  of  which  the  hostess  is  said  t(- 
have  crowned  his  body  with  a  laurel  wreath.  Rol 
licking,  reckless,  wicked  these  old  playwrights  were., 
for  all  the  beauty  of  their  verse,  all  the  nobility  oi 
their  perceptions.  They  had  their  public  with  them, 
to  be  sure  ;  if  their  plays  succeeded,  they  might  prob- 
ably be  better  paid  than  any  other  men  of  their  time 
who  had  only  their  wits  to  live  by.  Once  paid, 
however,  they  would  do  little  better  than  riot  away 
their  earnings  in  London  taverns. 

In  view  of  this,  a  very  familiar  part  of  Shakspere's 
writing  seems  freshly  significant.  It  was  in  1596,  we 
may  remember,  that  John  Shakspere,  for  the  first 
time  described  as  "  gentleman,"  applied  for  arms  ;  and 
in  1597  that  Shakspere  himself,  by  the  purchase  of 
New  Place,  first  became  a  landed  proprietor.  To  the 
latter  of  these  years,  at  latest,  we  must  attribute  the 
first  part  of  Henry  IV.,  which  was  entered  in  the 
Stationers'  Register  on  February  25th,  1597-98.  In 
Henry  IV.  occur  those  vivid  scenes  concerning  Fal- 
staff  and  his  crew  on  which  our  actual  knowledge  of 
Elizabethan  tavern-life  is  chiefly  based.  It  was  in  such 
a  tavern  as  makes  classic  the  name  of  Eastcheap  that 
Marlowe  met  his  end  ;  in  just  such  a  place  that  Greene 
lived  with  the  sister  of  Cutting  Ball,  hanged  at  Tyburn  ; 
in  such  a  place,  too,  must  have  been  cracked  the  bawdy 
jokes  of  George  Peele.  It  seems  hardly  unreasonable, 
then,  to  guess  that  Shakspere's  wonderful  picture  of 
the  cradle  of  the  Elizabethan  drama  may  have  been 


44  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

made  at  the  moment  wlien  prosperity  at  length  allowed 
him  to  emerge  into  a  more  decent  way  of  life.  How 
ever  this  may  be,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that,  in  1587, 
any  professional  actor  must  perforce  have  found  him- 
self in  such  environment  as  surrounded  Falstaff  and 
Gadshill,  and  Peto,  and  Bardolph,  and  Mistress 
Quickly. 

To  sum  up  this  cursory  view  of  the  state  of  English 
Literature  and  the  English  stage  at  the  moment  when 
Shakspere's  professional  life  began :  Formal  Eng- 
lish Literature,  which  had  begun  with  the  work  of 
Wyatt,  had  accomplished  only  three  things,  all  rather 
slight :  it  had  reduced  a  barbarous  language  to 
something  like  a  civilized  form ;  it  had  supplied  the 
newly  awakened  national  curiosity  with  a  good  deal 
of  compendious  information ;  and  it  had  at  once 
stimulated  and  gratified  an  excessive  appetite  for 
verbal  ingenuity,  which  delighted  in  the  affectations 
of  euphuism,  and  at  the  same  time  relished  lyric 
verse  of  lasting  beauty.  Meanwhile,  this  kind  of 
thing,  though  highly  fashionable,  did  not  pay  particu- 
larly well ;  to  all  appearances  not  even  John  Lyly 
made  any  money  to  speak  of.  The  theatre,  on  the 
other  hand,  had  developed  the  popular  trifles  of  stroll- 
ing players  into  a  fairly  established  and  tolerably 
lucrative  kind  of  drama,  whose  vigorously  romantic 
tendency  was  much  to  the  taste  of  fashionable  and 
popular  audiences  alike.  In  the  hands  of  Marlowe, 
this  drama  had  already  at  least  once  been  the  vehicle 
of  profound  tragic  feeling ;   yet  Marlowe  himself  was 


THE   TFIEATRE   UNTIL  1587  45 

popular,  not  as  a  great  tragic  poet,  but  as  a  daring 
verbal  and  formal  innovator.  The  stage  and  litera- 
ture alike,  then,  were  chiefly  notable  for  eager,  experi- 
mental pursuit  of  novelty.  They  differed  chiefly  in 
the  fact  that  while  literature,  though  respectable,  was 
merely  fantastic,  the  stage,  though  increasingly  human, 
was  very  disreputable  indeed. 

Among  works  attributed  to  Shakspere,  there  are 
several  which,  genuine  or  not,  are  certainly  character- 
istic rather  of  the  period  than  of  the  man.  In  the 
beginning  of  what  purports  to  be  our  study  of  Shaks- 
pere himself,  then,  we  shall  find  ourselves  in  some 
degree  continuing  our  study  of  his  time.  There, 
rather  than  here,  seems  the  best  place  to  consider 
such  phases  of  literature  as  appear  in  his  poems,  and 
in  the  various  kinds  of  drama  —  comedy,  tragedy,  and 
history  —  which  had  begun  to  define  themselves  on 
the  stage.  All  we  need  now  remember  is  that,  at  the 
age  of  twenty  three  or  four,  Shakspere  found  himself, 
with  all  his  work  still  to  do,  in  the  environment  at 
which  we  have  just  glanced.  As  we  study  the  devel- 
opment of  his  work,  we  shall  incidentally  glance,  too, 
at  certain  changes  in  theatrical  conditions.  What 
our  study  should  begin  with  is  simply  this  environ- 
ment with  which  he  began. 

Of  the  temperament  of  the  man  whose  active  life 
began  under  these  circumstances  we  have  no  record, 
beyond  what  we  may  infer  from  his  work.  One  very 
familiar  passage  in  his  later  writing,  however,  when 
taken  in  connection  with  a  familiar  piece  of  contem- 


46  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

porary  gossip,  seems  at  least  suggestive  of  the  possi- 
bilities which  lay  within  him.  The  bit  of  gossip  is  a 
random  note  preserved  in  the  diary  of  one  John  Man- 
ningham,  Barrister-at-Law  of  the  Middle  Temple,  and 
of  Bradbourne,  Kent.  Writing  in  1602  or  1603,  with 
no  more  authority  than  one  "  Mr.  Curie,"  he  tells  a 
story  which  very  possibly  is  apocryphal,  but  which 
certainly  indicates  in  what  manner  of  estimation 
Shakspere  was  held  after  he  had  been  fifteen  years  at 
work :  ^  — 

*'Upon  a  tyme  wlieu  Burbidge  played  Kich.  3  there 
was  a  Citizen  gaene  soe  farr  in  liking  with  him, -that  before 
shee  went  from  the  play  shee  appointed  him  to  come  that 
night  unto  hir  by  the  name  of  Ri :  the  3.  Shakespeare 
overhearing  their  conclusion  went  before,  was  intertained, 
and  at  his  game  ere  Burbedge  came.  Then  message  being 
brought  that  Bich.  the  3**  was  at  the  dore',  Shakespeare 
caused  returne  to  be  made  that  William  the  Conquerour  was 
before  Rich,  the  3.     Sbakespere's  name  William." 

The  familiar  passage  from  Shakspere's  own  writ- 
ing is  the  111th  sonnet,  which  was  certainly  written 
within  a  few  years  of  the  same  date.  It  gives  at  least 
a  plausible  inner  glimpse  of  a  life  whose  outward  aspect 
might  have  justified  Manningham's  gossip :  — 

*'  0,  for  my  sake  do  you  with  Fortune  chide, 
The  guilty  goddess  of  my  harmful  deeds, 
That  did  not  better  for  my  life  provide 
Than  public  means  which  public  manners  breeds. 

1  Centurie  of  Prayse,  45. 


TIIH   TIIKATRE   UNTIL   1587  47 

Thence  comes  it  that  my  name  receives  a  brand, 

And  almost  thence  my  nature  is  subdued 

To  what  it  works  in,  like  a  dyer's  hand: 

Pity  me  then,  and  wish  I  were  renew'd; 

Whilst,  like  a  willing  patient,  I  will  drink 

Potions  of  eisen  'gainst  my  strong  infection; 

No  bitterness  that  I  will  bitter  think, 

Nor  double  penance,  to  correct  correction. 

Pity  me  then,  dear  friend,  and  I  assure  ye 
Even  that  your  pity  is  enough  to  cure  me." 

^  Vinegar. 


IV 

THE   WORKS  OF  SHAKSPERE 

From  now  forth,  we  shall  devote  our  attention 
chiefly  to  the  works  of  Shakspere,  in  which  we  shall 
endeavor  constantly  to  find  traces  of  his  artistic 
individuality.  Though,  like  any  technical  term  of 
criticism,  the  phrase  sound  canting,  it  has  a  real 
meaning.  Any  artist,  in  whatever  art,  whose  work 
deserves  serious  attention,  must  either  perceive  or 
express  the  matters  with  which  he  deals  —  or  better 
still  both  perceive  and  express  them  —  in  a  way  pecu- 
liar to  himself.  The  artist's  work  need  not  be  auto- 
biographic ;  everybody  knows,  for  example,  that  a  most 
erratic  man  may  write  noble  poetry,  or  an  estimable 
young  girl  produce  a  novel  which  shocks  her  mother. 
Any  work  of  art,  however,  must  express  something 
which  the  artist,  either  in  experience  or  by  imagina- 
tive sympathy,  has  perceived  or  known.  If  in  the 
work  of  any  artist,  then,  we  succeed  in  defining  traits 
not  perceptible  in  that  of  others,  we  succeed,  so  far  as 
these  go,  in  defining  his  artistic  individuality. 

The  generally  accepted  works  of  Shakspere  con- 
sist of  two  rather  long  poems,  a  few  short  ones  not 
distinguishable  from  his  other  lyrics,  a  collection  of 
sonnets,  and  thirty-seven  five-act  plays,  if  we  count 


THE   WORKS   OF   SHAKSPERE  49 

separately  the  two  parts  of  Henry  IV.  and  the  three 
of  Henry  VI.  These  works  we  shall  generally  con- 
sider in  what  appears  to  be  their  chronological  order. 
Partly  because  the  two  long  poems  were  undoubtedly 
his  first  publications,  however,  and  partly  because 
they  are  by  far  the  most  careful  work  of  his  earlier 
period,  —  and  so  the  most  seriously  and  consciously 
expressive,  —  we  shall  consider  them  first.  The  plays 
we  shall  try  to  arrange  in  their  original  order,  placing 
the  Sonnets,  where  they  probably  belong,  in  the  midst 
of  the  dramatic  work. 

In  reading  this  dramatic  work,  we  must  never  allow 
ourselves  to  forget  that  it  is  not,  like  the  poems  and 
the  sonnets,  pure  literature,  addressed  primarily  to 
readers.  From  beginning  to  end  it  was  written  for 
an  actual  stage,  at  the  general  condition  of  which  we 
have  already  glanced.  So  far,  then,  as  we  try  to 
find  the  plays  expressive  of  the  artistic  individ- 
uality of  Shakspere,  we  must  keep  in  mind  that  they 
are  not  mere  writings,  but  texts  intended  to  be  recited 
by  professional  actors,  under  conditions  long  since 
obsolete,  to  popular  audiences.  Incidentally,  then, 
while  studying  the  work  of  Shakspere  we  must  find 
ourselves  continually  studying  the  conditions  and  the 
development  of  the  Elizabethan  stage. 

For  this  reason,  our  first  glance  at  this  stage  could 
properly  be  hasty.  As  we  shall  find  when  we  ex- 
amine the  first  plays  attributed  to  Shakspere,  if  not 
certainly  his  own,  this  stage  had  already  begun  to 
develop  certain  definite  kinds  of  drama,  tragic,  his- 


60  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

toric,  and  comic.  In  a  way,  then,  it  is  a  fortunate 
chance  that  what  seem  beyond  doubt  the  earliest  of 
the  plays  are  thought  by  many  critics  not  to  be  genuine. 
From  an  uncertainty  full  of  historical  suggestion,  and 
beyond  question  full  of  information  concerning  his 
artistic  environment  when  his  work  began,  we  can 
proceed  to  certainties  among  which  our  earlier  doubts 
may  help  us  to  define  the  traits  which  make  Shakspere 
artistically  individual. 

For  our  purposes,  we  may  conceive  his  complete 
work  as  grouping  itself  in  four  parts.  The  first  in- 
cludes his  poems  and  the  plays  from  Titus  Andronicus 
to  the  Two  Grentlemen  of  Verona  ;  the  second  includes 
the  plays  from  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  to 
Twelfth  Night;  between  this  and  the  third,  as  in 
some  degree  contemporaneous  with  both,  we  shall 
consider  the  Sonnets;  after  them  we  shall  consider 
the  third  group  of  plays,  from  Julius  Ccesar  to  Corio- 
lanus ;  Timon  of  Athens,  and  Pericles,  Prince  of 
Tyre,  as  transitional  and  peculiar,  we  shall  glance  at 
by  themselves ;  and  finally  we  shall  consider  the 
fourth  group  of  plays,  from  Cymheline  to  Henry  VUL 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS,  AND  THE  RAPE  OF  LUCRECE 

[Venus  and  Adonis  was  entered  in  the  Stationers'  Register  on  April 
iSth,  1593,  by  Richard  Field,  a  publisher,  who  originally  came  from 
Stratford.  It  was  puhlished  in  the  same  year,  with  a  dedication  to 
the  Earl  of  Southampton,  signed  "  William  Shakespeare."  In  this 
dedication,  of  which  the  terms  suggest  very  slight  acquaintance  be- 
tween poet  and  patron,  occurs  the  familiar  passage,  "  But  if  the  first 
heir  of  my  invention  prove  deformed,  I  shall  be  sorry  it  had  so  noble 
a  god-father,  and  never  after  ear  so  barren  a  land,  for  fear  it  yield  me 
still  so  bad  a  harvest."  The  poem  seems  to  have  been  popular.  Seven 
editions  were  pulilished  during  Shakspere's  life-time,  and  more  than 
twenty  allusions  to  it  before  1616  have  been  discovered.  Its  source,  to 
which  it  does  not  closely  adhere,  was  probably  Golding's  translation 
of  Ovid,  published  in  1567.  Concerning  its  date,  we  can  assert  only 
that  it  was  finished,  in  its  present  form,  by  1593. 

The  Rape  of  Lucrece  was  entered  in  the  Stationers'  Register  on 
May  9th,  1594.  It  was  published  in  the  same  year,  by  Richard  Field, 
with  a  dedication  to  the  Earl  of  Southampton,  from  the  terms  of  which 
it  has  been  inferred  that  since  the  publication  of  Venus  and  Adonis 
the  poet  had  had  personal  intercourse  with  his  patron :  "  The  love  I 
dedicate  to  your  lordship  is  without  end ;  whereof  this  pamphlet, 
without  beginning,  is  but  a  superfluous  moiety.  The  warrant  I  have 
of  your  honourable  disposition,  not  the  worth  of  my  untutored  lines, 
makes  it  assured  of  acceptance."  Prefixed  to  the  poem  is  an  "  Argu- 
ment," the  only  known  example  of  Shakspere's  non-dramatic  prose. 
Five  editions  were  published  before  1616,  and  the  Centurie  of  Prayse 
cites  fourteen  allusions  to  it  meanwhile.  Its  precise  source  is  not 
known ;  the  story,  at  the  time  very  familiar,  occurs  in  Paynter's  Palace 
of  Pleasure.  Concerning  its  date,  we  can  assert  only  that  it  seems 
distinctly  to  have  been  subsequent  to  Venus  and  Adonis,  and  that  it 
was  finished,  in  its  present  form,  by  1594.] 

For  our  purposes,  these  two  poems  may  be  grouped 
together.     Venus  and  Adonis,  in  its  own  day  some- 


52  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

what  the  more  popular,  still  seems  the  more  notable ; 
in  certain  aspects  the  merits  of  Lucrece  are  un- 
doubtedly more  respectable.  Together,  however, 
these  two  poems,  so  nearly  of  the  same  period,  rep- 
resent a  kind  of  Elizabethan  Literature  on  which 
we  have  not  as  yet  touched ;  together  they  reveal 
the  same  sort  of  artistic  mood  and  power.  In  dis- 
cussing them,  then,  we  need  not  carefully  separate 
them ;  and  if  most  of  our  attention  be  centred  on 
Venus  and  Adonis,  we  may  safely  assume  that  what 
we  find  true  of  that  is  in  general  terms  true  also  of 
Lucrece. 

From  what  we  have  already  seen  of  Elizabethan 
Literature,  we  have  assured  ourselves  that,  at  the  time 
when  these  poems  were  written,  polite  literature  was 
highly  fashionable,  and  the  stage  in  doubtful  repute. 
From  the  recorded  facts  of  Shakspere's  life  we  ven- 
tured to  make  some  guesses  concerning  his  tempera- 
ment which  might  lead  us  to  suppose  that,  at  any 
given  moment,  his  serious  interest  would  centre  in 
reputable  things.  It  seems  reasonable,  then,  to  infer 
that  these  poems,  in  all  respects  far  more  careful 
than  his  early  dramatic  writings,  represent  the  kind  of 
thing  to  which,  at  least  for  the  moment,  he  would 
have  preferred  to  devote  himself.  If  so,  he  would 
probably  have  thought  this  purely  literary  work  far 
more  important  than  his  better  paid,  but  less  elaborate, 
work  for  the  stage. 

The  kind  of  pure  literature  represented  by  these 
poems  is  akin  to  what  we  have  already  considered. 


VENUS   AXD   ADONIS,   AND   LLXRECE  5# 

From  the  time  of  Wyatt  and  Surrey  forward,  fashion- 
able literature  had  shown  the  influence  of  the  Re- 
naissance in  two  ways.  In  the  first  place,  starting 
with  Wyatt's  sonnets,  it  had  constantly,  and  with 
increasing  success,  tried  to  imitate  and  to  domesti- 
cate the  formal  graces  of  foreign  culture.  In  the 
second  place,  starting  perhaps  with  Surrey's  trans- 
lation of  the  JEneid,  it  had  tried  to  inspire  itself  with 
the  spirit  of  the  classics,  —  for  the  moment  as  fresh 
to  people  who  cared  for  literature  as  to-day,  after 
three  centuries  of  pedantry  and  editing,  they  seem 
stale,  —  and  to  reproduce  in  the  native  language  of 
England  something  resembling  their  effect.  To  this 
latter  tendency  we  owe  such  literature  as  the  poems 
of  Shakspere  exemplify.  What  they  attempt  is 
simply  to  tell,  in  new  and  excellent  phrase,  stories 
which  have  survived  from  classical  antiquity. 

In  this  respect,  as  well  as  in  some  others,  they 
have  many  points  of  likeness  to  much  Italian  paint- 
ing of  the  preceding  century.  In  each  case,  the  artist 
—  poet  or  painter  —  turned  to  the  revived  classics 
with  a  full  appetite  for  pagan  enjoyment ;  in  each,  he 
endeavored  to  tell  in  rich  contemporary  terms  the 
stories  he  found  there  ;  in  each,  the  phase  of  classical 
literature  which  appealed  to  his  taste  was  chiefly 
the  decadent  literature  of  Rome.  At  first,  it  would 
seem  as  if  the  great  popularity  of  Ovid  were  due  half 
to  his  erotic  license,  and  half  to  the  fact  that  he  wrote 
easy  Latin.  On  further  consideration,  the  question 
looks  less  simple.     The  liking  of  Renascent  Europe 


,54  A\aLLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

for  the  later  classics  is  very  similar  to  the  liking  of 
our  grandfathers  for  the  Apollo  Belvedere  and  the 
Venus  de'  Medici,  for  Guido  Reni  and  Carlo  Dolce. 
Freshly  awakened  artistic  perception  is  apt  to  prefer 
the  graces  of  some  past  decadence  to  the  simple,  pure 
beauty  of  really  great  periods.  Such  final  culture 
as  can  separate  good  from  bad,  cleaving  only  to  what 
is  best,  is  the  fruit  of  prolonged  critical  earnest- 
ness. What  these  poems  of  Shakspere,  and  the  others 
of  their  kind,  first  evince,  then,  is  a  state  of  culture 
alive  to  the  delights  of  past  civilization,  but  too  young 
to  be  soundly  critical. 

Choosing  their  subjects,  accordingly,  not  from  the 
grander  myths  of  Greece,  but  from  the  later  ones  of 
Rome,  the  Elizabethan  narrators  of  classic  story  pro- 
ceeded to  treat  them  in  a  spirit  very  different  from 
what  generally  prevails  nowadays.  A  contemporary 
of  our  own  who  should  choose  to  relate  anew  some 
familiar  classic  tradition  would  be  apt  to  infuse  into 
it,  if  he  could,  some  new  significance,  somewhat  as 
Goethe  infused  permanent  philosophic  meaning  into 
the  mediaeval  legend  of  Faust.  The  object  of  the 
Elizabethan  narrative  poet,  on  the  other  hand,  like 
that  of  the  Italian  painters,  was  simply  to  tell  the 
story  as  effectively  as  he  could.  He  bothered  himself 
little  about  what  it  might  signify  ;  he  permitted  him- 
self the  utmost  freedom  of  phrase  and  accessory ;  as  a 
rule,  he  never  thought  of  employing  any  but  contem- 
porary terms.  Like  his  own  stage,  he  dressed  his 
characters  in  the  actual  fashions  of  his  own  day ;  if 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS,   AND   LUCRECE  55 

he  made  them  splendid  and  attractive,  he  had  done 
his  work.  "What  originality  he  might  show  was  al' 
most  wholly  a  matter  of  phrase.  His  plot  he  frankly 
borrowed ;  his  style  was  his  own,  and  the  more  ingen- 
iously novel  he  could  make  it,  the  better.  Like  the 
other  writers  of  the  early  Elizabethan  period,  he 
proves  ultimately  to  have  been  an  enthusiastic  verbal 
juggler. 

To  understand  Shakspere's  poems,  then,  we  must 
train  ourselves  to  consider  them  as,  in  all  probability, 
little  else  than  elaborate  feats  of  phrase-making.  This 
does  not  mean  that  they  are  necessarily  empty.  A 
line  or  two  from  Lucrece,  chosen  quite  at  random, 
will  serve  to  illustrate  the  real  state  of  things :  — 

"  For  men  have  marble,  women  waxen,  minds,  ^ 
And  therefore  are  they  Ibrm'd  as  marble  will."  ^  ^ 

Here  is  clearly  a  general  truth  about  human  nature, 
expressed  with  considerable  felicity ;  and  that  is  the 
aspect  in  which  any  modern  reader  would  consider  it. 
Here  too,  though,  and  equally  plainly,  is  an  allitera- 
tive, euphuistic  antithesis  between  the  hardness  of 
marble  and  the  softness  of  wax,  resulting  in  a  meta- 
phor probably  fresher  three  hundred  years  ago  than  it 
seems  to  day,  but  even  then  far-fetched  ;  and  that  is 
the  aspect  in  which  the  Elizabethan  reader  would  have 
been  apt  to  see  it.  What  he  would  have  relished  is 
the  subtle  alliteration  on  m  and  w,  the  obvious  anti- 
thesis, and  the  slight  remoteness  of  the  metaphor ;  so 

1  Lucrece,  1240. 


56  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

far  as  he  was  concerned,  the  fact  that  the  lines  com- 
pactly express  a  general  truth  would  have  seemed, 
if  meritorious  at  all,  only  incidentally  so.  We  touch 
here  on  a  state  of  things  now  rarely  understood ;  it 
is  more  than  probable  that  the  lasting  felicity  of  much 
Elizabethan  poetry,  and  so  of  Shakspere's  own,  is 
largely  accidental.  Words  and  ideas  are  not  easily 
extricable ;  whoever  plays  with  either  is  sure  to  do 
something  with  the  other.  Nowadays  it  is  the  fashion 
to  disdain  verbal  ingenuity,  to  look  always  rather  at 
the  thought  than  at  the  phrase ;  in  Shakspere's  time 
this  state  of  things  was  completely  reversed.  As 
surely  as  our  own  thinkers  sometimes  blunder  upon 
phrases,  though,  the  Elizabethan  phrase-makers  —  by 
Shakspere's  time  far  more  skilful  in  their  art  than  our 
modern  thinkers  in  their  cogitations  —  oftener  and 
oftener  managed  incidentally  to  say  something  final. 

In  deciding  that  the  poems  of  Shakspere  show  him 
to  be  chiefly  an  enthusiastic,  careful  maker  of  phrases, 
and  so  incidentally  of  aphorisms,  we  declare  him  to 
have  been,  in  temper  and  in  method,  Elizabethan ;  we 
do  not  individualize  him.  Our  object  throughout  this 
study,  however,  is  if  possible  to  see  him  as  an  indi- 
vidual. To  do  this  we  may  best  compare  his  work 
with  other  work  of  the  same  period.  The  comparison 
is  obviously  at  hand.  In  1593,  the  year  when  Venus 
and  Adonis  appeared,  Marlowe  was  killed.  He  left 
unfinished  a  poem  called  Hero  and  Leander,  subse- 
quently concluded  by  Chapman.  By  comparing  Mar- 
lowe's poem  with  the  poems  of  Shakspere,  we  may 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS,   AND   LUCRECE  57 

get  some  notion  of  Shakspere's  literary  individuality. 
What  we  have  seen  so  far  is  true  not  only  of  Shaks- 
pere,  but  of  Marlowe  too,  and  generally  of  their  con- 
temporaries ;  what  we  shall  try  to  see  now  is  sometl^ng 
more  definite. 

The  effect  of  Marlowe's  Hero  and  Leander  is  very 
distinct.  Frankly  erotic  in  motive,  thoroughly  sen- 
suous in  both  conception  and  phrase,  it  never  seems 
corrupt.  Beyond  doubt  it  is  a  nudity  ;  but  it  is  among 
the  few  nudities  in  English  Literature  which  one 
groups  instinctively  with  the  grand,  unconscious  nudi- 
ties of  painting  or  sculpture.  Conscienceless  it  seems, 
impulsive,  full  of  half -fantastic  but  constant  imagina- 
tion, unthinkingly  pagan,  —  above  all  else,  in  its  own 
way  normal.  One  accepts  it,  one  delights  in  it,  one 
does  not  forget  it,  and  one  is  not  a  bit  the  worse  for 
the  memory,  in  thought  or  in  conduct. 

Equally  distinct  is  the  effect  of  Venus  and  Adonis, 
whose  motive  resembles  that  of  Hero  and  Leander 
enough  to  make  it  the  better  of  Shakspere's  poems 
for  this  comparison.  No  more  erotic,  rather  less 
eensuous  in  both  conception  and  phrase,  it  some- 
how seems,  for  all  its  many  graver  passages,  more 
impure.  It  is  such  a  nudity  as  suggests  rather  the 
painting  of  modern  Paris  than  that  of  Titian's  A^'enice. 
It  is  not  conscienceless,  not  swiftly  impulsive,  not 
quite  pagan, —  above  all,  not  quite  normal.  If  one 
think  only  of  its  detail,  it  is  sometimes  altogether 
delightful  and  admirable  ;  if  one  think  of  it  as  a 
whole,  —  particularly  at  austere  moments,  —  one  be- 


58  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

gins  to  wonder  whether  an  ideal  Shakspere,  in  maturer 
life,  ought  not  to  have  been  a  bit  ashamed  of  it. 
Surely,  one  feels,  the  man  who  wrote  this  knew  per- 
fectly well  the  difference  between  good  and  evil,  and 
did  not  write  accordingly. 

It  is  hard  to  realize  that  such  a  contrast  of  lit- 
erary effect  must  come  largely  from  differences  in 
style ;  yet  obviously  this  is  the  fact.  One  chief  dis- 
tinction between  Marlowe's  poem  and  Shakspere's 
is  clearly  that  in  the  one  case  a  number  of  words 
were  chosen  and  put  together  by  one  man,  and  in 
the  other  by  another.  The  cause  of  their  notable 
differences,  then,  may  confidently  be  sought  in  specific 
comparison  of  detail ;  if  we  can  discover  this  cause 
we  shall  have  discovered  something  which  clearly 
distinguishes  Shakspere  from  Marlowe,  and  so  helps 
us  toward  a  notion  of  his  individuality. 

The  first  lines  of  Venus  and  Adonis  describe 
sunrise  :  — 

"  Even  as  the  sun  with  purple-colour'd  face 
Had  ta'en  his  last  leave  of  the  weeping  morn, 
Rose-cheek'd  Aflonis  hied  him  to  the  chase; 
Hunting  he  l»ved,  but  l»ve  he  laugh'd  te  scern." 

In  Hero  and  Leander  there  is  a  similar  description 
of  the  same  time  of  day  ^ :  — 

"  Now  had  the  Morn  espied  her  lover's  steeds  ; 
Whereat  she  starts,  puts  on  her  purple  weeds, 
And,  red  for  anger  that  he  stay'd  so  long, 
All  headlong  throws  herself  the  clouds  among." 

^  Second  Sestiad. 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS,  AND  LUCRECE    59 

In  both  descriptions  there  is  conventional  mytho- 
logical allusion,  in  both  the  figurative  language  refers 
to  the  purple  hue  often  perceptible  at  dawn ;  yet  de- 
spite this  similarity,  the  difference  of  effect  is  almost 
as  marked  as  that  of  the  poems  they  come  from. 
This  difference  is  not  all  due  to  the  greater  compact- 
ness of  Shakspere,  who  tells  in  two  lines  as  much  as 
Marlowe  tells  in  four ;  it  is  due  stl^^ore  to  the  fact 
that  of  Shakspere's  four  lincs^^^Bit  the  second 
might,  in  real  life,  be  literall}^^^Pf  while  all  four 
lines  of  Marlowe  deal  with  pure  mythological 
fancy. 

The   contrast  thus  indicated    persists   throughout. 
Here  is  Marlowe's  description  of  Hero's  costume :  ^ 

"  The  outside  of  her  garments  were  of  lawn, 
The  lining,  purple  silk,  with  gilt  stars  drawn; 
Her  wide  sleeves  green,  and  border'd  with  a  grove 
Where  Venus  in  her  naked  glory  strove 
To  please  the  careless  and  disdainful  eyes 
01"  proud  Adonis,  that  before  her  lies  ; 
Her  kirtJe  blue,  whereon  was  many  a  stain, 
Made  with  the  blood  of  wretched  lovers  slain. 
Upon  her  head  she  ware  a  myrtle  wreath. 
From  whence  her  veil  reach'd  to  the  ground  beneath  : 
Her  veil  was  artificial  flowers  and  leaves. 
Whose  workmanship  both  man  and  beast  deceives." 

Compare  with  this  Shakspere's  description  of  the 
horse  of  Adonis  "^  —  in  Shakspere's  poem,  we  may 
remember,  no  one  is  quite  so  thoroughly  clothed  as 
Hero :  — 

*  First  Sestiad.  *  Line  295  seq. 


60  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

"Round-hoofd,  short-jointed,  fetlocks  shag  and  long, 
Broad  breast,  full  eye,  small  head  and  nostril  wide, 
High  crest,  short  ears,  straight  legs  and  passing  strong, 
Thin  mane,  thick  tail,  broad  buttock,  tender  hide: 

Look,  what  a  horse  should  have  he  did  not  lack, 

Save  a  proud  rider  on  so  proud  a  back." 

Again,  compare  the  similes  and  the  action  and  the 
generalizations  in  the  passages  which  follow.  Here  is 
Marlowe's  desci^Jjj^j^of  the  first  meeting  of  Hero  and 
Leander :  — 


ii^^jj^i  o: 
oii^Wer 


"  It  lies  not  in  ou^pWer  to  love  or  hate, 
For  will  in  us  is  over-rul'd  by  fate. 
When  two  are  stript,  long  ere  the  course  begin, 
We  wish  that  one  should  lose,  the  other  win  ; 
And  one  especially  do  we  affect 
Of  two  gold  ingots,  like  in  each  respect : 
The  reason  no  man  knows  ;  let  it  suffice 
What  we  behold  is  censur'd  by  our  eyes. 
Where  both  deliberate,  the  love  is  slight  : 
Who  ever  lov'd,  that  lov'd  not  at  first  sight  ?* 
He  kneel'd  ;  but  unto  her  devoutly  pray'd  : 
Chaste  Hero  to  herself  thus  softly  said, 
*  Were  I  the  saint  he  worships,  I  would  hear  him ;  * 
And,  as  she  spake  those  words,  came  somewhat  near  him." 

And  here  is  Shakspere's  description  of  the  last  meet- 
ing ^  of  Venus  and  Adonis.  Having  caught  sight  of 
him  wounded, 

••As  the  snail,  whose  tender  horns  being  hit, 
Shrinks  backward  in  his  shelly  cave  with  pain, 
And  there,  all  smotber'd  up,  in  shade  doth  sit, 
Long  after  fearing  to  creep  forth  again  ; 

^  Cited,  we  remember,  in  As  You  Like  It,  III.  v.  83. 
»  Lines  1033-1068. 


VENUS   AND   ADONIS,  AND   LLX'RECE  61 

So,  at  his  bloody  view,  her  eyes  are  fled 
Into  the  deep  dark  cabins  of  her  head." 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

[Then]  "  beiny  ojjen'd,  threw  unwilling  light 
Upon  the  wide  wound  that  the  boar  had  trench'd 
In  his  soft  flank  ;  whose  wonted  lily  white 
With  purple  tears,  that  his  wound  wept,  was  drench'd  : 
No  flower  was  nigh,  no  grass,  herb,  leaf,  or  weed, 
But  stole  his  blood  and  seeiu'd  with  him  to  bleed. 


'Upon  his  hurt  she  looks  so  steadfy 
That  her  sight  dazzling  makes  th^^^^Vseem  three ; 
And  then  she  reprehends  her  man^B^ye, 
That  makes  more  gashes  where  no  breach  should  be  : 

His  face  seems  twain,  each  several  limb  is  doubled  ; 

For  oft  the  eye  mistakes,  the  brain  being  troubled." 


iii^^eye 


These  examples  are  more  than  enough  to  indi- 
cate both  the  precise  difference  in  the  effect  of 
the  two  poems,  and  its  cause.  From  beginning 
to  end,  Marlowe  is  not  literal,  not  concrete ;  he 
never  makes  you  feel  as  if  what  he  described  were 
actually  happening  in  any  real  world.  From  begin- 
ning to  end,  on  the  other  hand,  Sliakspere  is  con- 
stantly, minutely  true  to  nature.  While  the  action 
of  Hero  and  Leander  occurs  in  some  romantic  no- 
where, inhabited  by  people  whose  costume,  if  dcs- 
cribable,  is  quite  unimaginable,  the  action  of  Venus 
and  Adonis  occurs  in  Elizabethan  England,  where  men 
know  the  points  of  horses.  The  absence  from  Mar- 
lowe's poem  of  all  pretence  to  reality  saves  it  from 
apparent  corruption  ;  in  Shakspere's  poem,  incessant 
suggestions  of  reality  produce  the  contrary  effect. 


62  AVILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

A  very  brief  comparison  of  detail  will  show  the 
technical  means  by  which  this  difference  is  made  ap- 
parent. Take  two  lines  from  Marlowe  —  one  a  simile, 
the  other  a  generalization  —  and  place  beside  them 
two  lines  of  similar  import  from  Shakspere :  — 
♦'  When  two  are  stript,  loug  ere  the  course  begin," 
writes  Marlowe ; 

**  Or  as  tha^^^^vhose  tender  horns  being  hit,** 

writes  Shakspci^^^R\Iarlowe's  line,  only  one  word  — 
stript  —  is  concrete"  enough  to  suggest  a  vivid  visual 
image ;  in  Shakspere's  line,  there  are  four  words  — 
snail,  tender,  horns,  and  hit  —  each  of  which  is  as 
vividly  concrete  as  the  most  vivid  word  of  Marlowe's. 
Again, 

"  Who  ever  lov'd,  that  lov'd  not  at  first  sight  ? " 

writes  Marlowe ; 

"  For  oft  the  eye  mistakes,  the  brain  being  troubled," 

writes  Shakspere.  In  Marlowe's  generalization,  the 
words  are  simply  general  throughout ;  in  Shakspere's, 
they  are  so  concrete  as  to  amount  to  a  plain  statement 
of  physiological  fact. 

This  distinguishing  trait  —  that,  to  a  remarkable 
degree,  Shakspere's  words  stand  for  actual  con- 
cepts—  pervades  not  only  Venus  and  Adonis,  but 
also  Lucrece.  It  is  more  palpable  in  the  former 
poem  only  because  its  effect  there  is  so  start- 
lingly  different  from  that  produced  by  Marlowe's 
more  nebulous  vocabulary.     It  pervades  not  only  the 


VENUS   AND   ADONIS,    AND   LLX'RECE  63 

poems,  but  the  plays,  too ;  beyond  reasonable  doubt 
it  is  the  trait  which  distinguishes  Shakspere  not  only 
among  his  contemporaries  but  from  almost  any  other 
English  writer. 

At  first  sight,  this  concreteness  of  phrase  seems  to 
indicate  extreme  intensity  of  conscious  thought,  on 
which  conclusion  have  been  based  many  worship- 
ping expositions  of  the  almost  divine  wisdom  and 
philosophy  of  Shakspere.  The^onclusion  cannot 
be  denied  ;  it  may,  however,  be  i^sonably  questioned 
even  to  the  point  of  growing  doubt  as  to  whether 
Shakspere  himself,  the  Elizabethan  playwright,  could 
have  had  much  realizing  sense  of  his  own  philosophy 
and  wisdom.  As  we  have  seen,  the  literary  fashion 
of  his  time  delighted  above  all  things  else  in  fresh,  in- 
genious turns  of  phrase ;  in  Shakspere's  work,  accord- 
ingly, fresh,  ingenious  turns  of  ])hrase  abound.  As  we 
have  seen,  too,  one  cannot  combine  words  and  phrases 
without  also  combining  ideas;  when  languasre  grows 
definite,  words  and  thoughts  combine  inextricably. 
Such  a  phenomenon  as  Shakspere's  style,  then,  may 
well  proceed  from  a  cause  surprisingly  remote  from 
conscious  intensity  of  thought ;  it  may  indicate  noth- 
ing more  than  a  constitutional  habit  of  mind  by  which 
words  and  concepts  are  instinctively  allied  with  un- 
usual firmness.  We  all  know  palpable  differences  in 
the  habitual  alliances  of  word  and  concept  among  our 
own  friends  ;  we  know,  too,  that  these  differences, 
which  often  make  uneducated  or  thoughtless  people 
appear  to  advantage,  are  a  matter  not  so  much  of  train- 


64  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

ing,  as  of  temperament.  Of  course  the  felicities  of 
phrase,  and  the  incidental  wisdom,  which  come  from 
such  natural  marriages  of  words  and  concepts  are  not 
absolutely  thoughtless ;  but  the  diffei^ence  between 
them  and  the  feebler  expressions  of  people  whose 
natural  style  lacks  precision  is  often  that  while  the 
latter  involve  acute  consciousness  of  thought,  the 
former  involve  little  more  than  alert  consciousness 
of  phrase.  Take  care  of  your  words,  if  your  words 
naturally  stand  for  real  concepts,  and  your  thoughts 
will  take  care  of  themselves.  Given  such  a  natural 
habit  of  mind  as  this  in  a  healthy  human  being,  given 
too  the  immense  skill  in  phrase-making  which  per- 
vaded the  literary  atmosphere  of  Shakspere's  time, 
given  an  eager  effort  on  Shakspere's  part  to  make 
phrases  which  should  compare  with  the  best  of  them, 
and  very  surely  the  result  you  would  expect  is  just 
such  a  style  as  distinguishes  Venus  and  Adonis  and 
Lucre  ce. 

To  dwell  on  this  trait  of  style,  even  at  the  risk 
of  tedium,  has  been  well  worth  our  while.  Palpable 
throughout  Shakspere's  work,  it  is  nowhere  more 
easily  demonstrable  than  here,  in  the  poems  which 
were  clearly  the  most  painstaking  productions  of 
his  early  artistic  life ;  for  in  the  poems,  admi- 
rable as  they  so  often  are  in  phrase,  one  can  find 
ultimately  little  else  than  admirably  conscientious 
phrase-making.  Shakspere  tells  his  stories  with  typi- 
cal Elizabethan  ingenuity ;  incidentally  he  infuses 
them  with  a  permeating  sense  of  fact,  astonishingly 


VENUS   AND   ADONIS,   AND  LUCRECE  65 

(Jilferent  from  tlie  untrammelled  imagination  of  Mar- 
lowe ;  yet  plausibly,  if  not  certainly,  this  effect  is  trace- 
able to  the  instinctive  habit  of  a  mind  in  which  the 
natural  alliance  of  words  and  concepts  was  uniquely 
close.  Here,  then,  we  have  the  trait  which,  above  all 
others,  defines  the  artistic  individuality  of  Shakspere. 
To  him,  beyond  any  other  writer  of  English,  words 
and  thoughts  seemed  naturally  identical. 


VI 


THE    PLAYS  OF    SHAKSPERE,    FROM    TITUS   ANDRONI- 
CUS  TO  THE  TWO  GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA 

I.  Titus  Andronicus 

[A  Noble  Roman  Historye  of  Tytus  Andronicus  was  entered  in 
the  Stationers'  Register  on  February  6th,  1593-94.  La  1598,  Meres 
mentioned  Titus  Andronicus  as  among  Shakspere's  tragedies.  The 
play,  virtually  in  its  present  form,  was  published  in  quarto,  without 
Shakspere's  name,  in  1600.  There  was  another  anonymous  quarto  in 
1611.  Besides  Meres's  allusion  to  it,  the  Centurie  of  Prayse  cites  two 
others  during  Shakspere's  lifetime,  neither  of  which  mentions  his 
name.  The  second  of  these  is  in  Ben  Jonson's  Bartholomew  Fair, 
which  appeared  in  1614 :  "  Hee  that  will  sweare  Jeronimo  ^  or  Androni- 
cus are  the  best  playes,  yet  shall  passe  unexcepted  at,  heere,  as  a  man 
whose  Judgement  shewes  it  is  constant,  and  hath  stood  still,  these  five 
and  twentie,  or  thirtie  yeeres."  From  this,  as  well  as  from  its  general 
archaism,  the  inference  has  been  drawn  that  the  play  belongs,  at  latest, 
to  1589.  As  Shakspere  was  not  in  London  before  1587,  then,  a  rea- 
sonable conjectural  date  for  it  is  1588. 

Its  precise  source  is  unknown.  The  story  seems  to  have  been 
familiar.  Possibly  tlie  play,  as  we  have  it,  is  a  retouched  version  of 
an  older  play  called  Titus  and  Vespasian,  of  which  a  German  adapta- 
tion exists. 

The  genuineness  of  Titus  Andronicus  has  been  much  questioned,  on 
the  ground  that  it  is  unworthy  of  Shakspere;  the  arguments  in  its 
favor  rest  on  Meres's  allusion,  and  on  the  fact  that  it  was  included  in 
the  folio  of  1623.     If  Shakspere's,  it  is  probably  his  earliest  work.] 

The  frequent  doubt  as  to  the  genuineness  of  Titus 
Andronicus  gains  color  from  the  place  where  the 
play  is  generally  printed.     In  most  editions  of  Shaks- 

^  Le.,  Kyd's  Spanish  Tragedy,  circ.  1588. 


TITUS  ANDRONICUS  67 

pere  it  occurs  between  Coriolanus  and  Romeo  and 
Juliet.  Thus  placed,  it  seems  little  more  than  a  mon- 
strous tissue  of  absurdities,  —  a  thing  of  which  no 
author  who  wrote  such  tragedies  as  the  others  could 
conceivably  have  been  guilty. 

Read  by  itself,  however,  particularly  at  a  moment 
when  one  is  not  prepossessed  by  Shakspere's  greater 
work,  it  does  not  seem  so  bad.  Crude  as  it  is  in 
general  conception  and  construction,  free  as  it  is  from 
any  vigorous  strokes  of  character,  it  has,  here  and 
there,  a  rhetorical  strength  and  impulse  which  sweep 
you  on  unexpectedly.  In  the  opening  scene,  for  ex- 
ample, where  Andronicus  commits  to  the  tomb  the 
bodies  of  his  sons,^  who  have  fallen  in  battle,  his  half- 
lyric  lament  has  real  beauty  :  — 

"  In  peace  and  honour  rest  you  here,  my  sons  ; 
Rome's  readiest  champions,  repose  you  here  in  rest, 
Secure  from  worldly  chances  and  mishaps  I 
Here  lurks  no  treason,  here  no  envy  swells. 
Here  grow  no  damned  grudges  ;  here  are  no  storms, 
No  noise,  but  silence  and  eternal  sleep: 
In  peace  and  honour  rest  you  here,  my  sons  !  " 

Or  again,  when  Lavinia  is  brought  to  him,  maimed 
and  ravished,  his  speech,^  whoever  wrote  it,  has  a 
rude  power  of  its  own :  — 

"  It  was  my  deer  ;  and  he  that  wounded  her 
Hath  hurt  me  more  than  had  he  kill'd  me  dead: 
For  now  I  stand  as  one  upon  a  rock 
Environ'd  with  a  wilderness  of  sea, 
Who  marks  the  waxing  tide  grow  wave  by  wave, 

1  I.  i.  150  seq.  2  m  ;.  91  ggq. 


68  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

Expecting  ever  when  some  envious  surge 
Will  in  his  brinish  bowels  swallow  him. 

•  ■•••• 

Had  I  but  seen  thy  picture  in  this  plight, 
It  would  have  madded  me:  what  shall  I  do, 
Now  I  behold  thy  lively  body  so  ] 
Thou  hast  no  hands,  to  wipe  away  thy  tears ; 
Nor  tongue,  to  tell  me  who  hath  martyr'd  thee: 
Thy  husband  he  is  dead;  and  for  his  death 
Thy  brothers  are  condemn'd,  and  dead  by  this. 
Look,  Marcus  !  ah,  son  Lucius,  look  on  her ! 
When  I  did  name  her  brothers,  then  fresh  tears 
Stood  on  her  cheeks,  as  doth  the  honey-dew 
Upon  a  gather'd  lily,  almost  wither'd." 

"Whatever  else  this  is,  and  there  is  plenty  like  it  in 
Titus  Andronicus,  it  is  good,  sonorous  rant. 

As  sonorously  ranting,  then,  whether  Shakspere's 
or  not,  the  play  is  a  typical  example  of  English  tra- 
gedy at  the  moment  when  Shakspere's  theatrical  life 
began.  If,  in  his  earlier  months  of  work,  he  tried 
his  hand  at  tragedy  at  all,  he  certainly  must  have 
tried  it  at  this  kind  of  thing ;  for  in  substance,  as  well 
as  in  style,  Titus  Andronicus  typifies  the  early  Eliza- 
bethan tragedy  of  blood.  The  object  of  this,  like 
that  of  cheap  modern  newspapers,  was  to  excite  crude 
emotion  by  heaping  up  physical  horrors.  The  penny 
dreadfuls  of  our  own  time  preserve  the  type  perenni- 
ally ;  something  of  the  sort  always  persists  in  theatres 
of  the  lower  sort ;  and  it  is  perhaps  noteworthy  that 
the  titles,  and  in  some  degree  the  style,  of  these  mod- 
ern monstrosities  preserve  one  of  the  most  marked 
traits  of  Elizabethan  English,  —  extravagant  allitera- 


TITUS   ANDRONICUS  69 

tion.  Not  only  in  extravagance  of  alliterative  horrors, 
but  also  in  serene  disregard  of  historic  fact,  the  lower 
literature  of  our  own  time  preserves  the  old  type. 
Both  traits  appear,  too,  in  the  romantic  fancies  of 
young  children  who  take  to  literature.  There  has 
lately  been  in  existence,  for  example,  an  appalling 
melodrama  on  the  Massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew,  writ- 
ten at  the  age  of  ten  by  an  American  youth,  wherein 
Charles  IX.,  Catherine  de'  Medici,  and  Coligny  figured 
along  with  a  very  heroic  Adrien  de  Bourbon,  who 
assassinated  Charles,  and,  serenely  ascending  the 
throne,  proceeded  to  govern  France  according  to 
the  liberal  principles  generally  held  axiomatic  in  the 
United  States.  It  took  no  more  liberty  with  French 
history  than  Titus  Andro7iicus  takes  with  Roman ; 
and  both  plays  are  of  the  same  school. 

In  a  way,  such  stuff  seems  hardly  worth  serious 
attention.  At  the  very  moment  to  which  we  have 
attributed  Titus  Andronicus^  however,  Marlowe  was 
certainly  developing  the  traditional  tragedy  of  blood 
into  a  form  which  remains  grandly  if  unequally  signifi- 
cant in  the  Jeio  of  Malta.  Less  than  twenty  years  later, 
this  same  school  of  literature  had  produced  Hamlet 
and  Othello,  and  King  Lear,  and  Macbeth.  Even  in 
them,  many  of  its  traits  persist.  Like  their  crude 
prototypes,  they  appeal  to  the  taste  prevalent  in  all 
Elizabethan  audiences  for  excessive  bloodshed,  and 
stentorian  rant.  Until  we  understand  that  there  is  an 
aspect  in  which  these  great  tragedies  and  this  grotesque 
Titus  AndronicuH  may  rationally  be  grouped  together, 
we  shall  not  understand  the  Elizabethan  theatre. 


70  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

Whether  Shakspere's  or  not,  then,  Titus  Andronieus 
deserves  a  passing  glance  in  any  serious  study  of 
Shakspere.  If  his,  as  many  of  the  soundest  critics 
are  disposed  to  believe,  it  deserves  more ;  for,  at  least 
in  the  fact  that  it  differs  little  from  any  conventional 
drama  of  its  time,  it  throws  light  on  his  artistic  char- 
acter. Marlowe  and  Shakspere  were  just  of  an  age. 
The  year  before  that  to  which  we  have  attributed 
Titus  Andronieus^  Marlowe  had  produced  in  Tambur- 
laine  not  only  a  popular  play  but  a  great  tragic  poem ; 
in  1588,  he  produced  another,  the  Jew  of  Malta. 
Whatever  Marlowe  touched,  from  the  beginning,  he 
instantly  transformed  into  something  better.  Shaks- 
pere, meanwhile,  if  this  play  be  his,  contented  himself 
with  frankly  imitative,  conventional  stage-craft. 

II.   Henry  YI. 

[The  First  and  Second  Parts  of  Henry  VI.,  together  with  Titus 
Andronieus,  were  entered  iu  the  Stationers'  Register,  on  April  19th,  1602, 
as  transferred  from  Thomas  Millington  to  Thomas  Pavier.  There  is 
no  specific  mention  of  the  Third  Part  until  November  8th,  1 623,  when  it 
was  entered  for  publication  in  the  folio.  In  their  present  form,  all  three 
parts  first  appeared  in  the  folio  of  1623. 

No  other  version  of  the  First  Part  is  known.  The  Second  Part  is 
obviously  a  version  of  The  First  Part  of  the  Contention  betwixt  the  two 
famous  Houses  of  Yorke  and  Lancaster,  entered  on  March  1 2th,  1593-94, 
and  published  by  Millington  in  the  same  year.  The  Third  Part  is  a 
similar  version  of  The  true  Tragedie  of  Richard  Duke  of  Yorke,  etc., 
published  by  Millington  in  159,5.  Both  of  these  quartos  were  repub- 
lished in  1600.  In  none  of  these  entries  or  publications,  prior  to  1623, 
is  there  any  mention  of  Shakspere's  name.  Greene's  allusion  in  1592  is 
the  only  contemporary  one  directly  connecting  any  of  these  plays  with 
Shakspere.  Nash,  in  the  same  year,  alluded  to  the  popularity  of 
Talbot  on  the  stage. 


HENRY  VI  71 

The  question  of  the  authorship  of  all  these  plays,  as  well  as  of  the 
relation  of  the  quartos  to  the  folio,  has  been  much  disputed.^ 

The  weight  of  opinion  seems  to  favor  the  supposition  that  Greene, 
Peele,  Kyd,  and  Marlowe  had  a  hand  in  them,  and  that  so  far  as 
Shalispere  touched  them  it  was  by  way  of  collaboration,  interpolation, 
or  revision. 

Wiioever  wrote  them,  they  are  clearly  conventional  examples  of 
Elizabethan  chronicle-history,  based  for  the  most  part  on  the  chroni- 
cles of  Ilolinshed,  Hall,  and  Stowe.  Their  obvious  crudities,  as  well  as 
metrical  tests,  place  them  early;  a  reasonable  conjecture  might  put 
them  from  1590  to  1592.J 

Titus  Andronicus,  we  found,  whether  Shakspere's 
or  not,  throws  light  on  the  dramatic  environment  in 
which  his  work  began.  In  Henri/  VI.,  which  for  our 
purposes  we  may  consider  as  a  single  play,  we  shall 
find  a  similar  state  of  things ;  this  three-part  drama 
certainly  makes  clear  two  facts  still  new  to  us  con- 
cerning the  Elizabethan  stage.  The  first  is  that,  at 
least  among  the  earlier  playwrights,  collaboration  was 
habitual ;  the  second  is  that  chronicle-history  —  a  kind 
of  thing  which  has  long  been  theatrically  obsolete  — 
is  probably  the  most  characteristic  type  of  play  pro- 
duced by  that  stage.  These  matters  we  may  well 
glance  at  before  attending  in  detail  to  Henry  VI. 

Collaboration  has  always  been  more  common  in 
dramatic  literature  than  in  other  kinds.  One  reason 
for  this  lies  in  the  obvious  difference  between  a  play 
written  for  acting,  and  a  book  or  what  else  addressed 
solely  to  readers.     The  author  of  a  book  can  address 

^  See,  for  example,  Miss  .J.  Lee's  paper  in  the  New  Shakspere 
Society's  Transactions  for  1876;  and  Fleay's  discussion  in  the  Lift 
and  Works,  pp.  255-283. 


72  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

his  public,  vrith  no  other   intervention  than  that  of 
printers  and  proof-readers,  over  whom,  if  he  choose, 
he  may  exercise  constant  control.      A  play,  on  the 
other  hand,  can   be   put   before   the  public,  at  least 
in  the  form  which  the    author  intends,  only  by  the 
intervention  of  a  number  of  trained  performers ;  each 
of  them,  moreover,    must  not   only  intervene  in   all 
the  visible   complexity  of   his    own   personality,  but 
he  must  furthermore  be  conditioned  in  his   methods 
of  expressing  the  author's  meaning  by  the  elaborate 
physical  and  mechanical  circumstances  of  a  theatre. 
A  dramatic  author,  then,  needs  not  only  the  equip- 
ment of  an  ordinary  man  of  letters  —  grasp  of  sub- 
ject   and    mastery    of    literary    style  —  but    also   a 
knowledge  of  the  resources  and  limits  of  the  actual 
stage  closely  akin  to  the  knowledge  of  the  orchestra 
essential  to  a  skilful  composer  of   music.     For   this 
reason,  few  men  of  letters  pure  and  simple  have  ever 
succeeded  in  writing  an  actable  play ;  and  those  who 
have  succeeded  prove  often  to  have  done  so  only  with 
the  help  of   presumably   humbler  collaborators   inti- 
mately familiar  with  the  theatre. 

When  any  school  of  dramatic  literature  is  thoroughly 
developed,  to  be  sure,  as  the  Elizabethan  drama  became 
in  Shakspere's  time,  or  as  the  French  has  been  in  our 
own,  theatrical  people,  and  literary  too,  sometimes  be- 
came accomplished  enough  to  take  the  full  burden  of 
authorship  on  themselves.  Even  then,  however,  —  as 
the  mere  mention  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  or  a 
glance  at  the  collected  works  of  any  modern  French 


HENRY   VI  73 

dramatist,  will  suggest,  —  collaboration  is  at  least 
frequent ;  while  in  such  an  early  stage  of  dramatic 
literature  as  prevailed  when  Shakspere's  work  began, 
collaboration  will  generally  be  the  rule. 

The  stage  for  which  Shakspere  wrote,  in  fact,  was 
a  true  stage,  where  i)lays  were  rated  successful  in 
accordance  with  their  power  of  drawing  audiences. 
Whoever  suggested  a  touch  in  a  play  which  should 
increase  its  power  of  attraction  was  welcome  to  any 
manager;  and  if  four  or  five  men  working  together 
made  a  play  more  attractive  than  one  man  working 
by  himself,  so  much  the  better.  As  literature,  of 
course,  the  play  would  probably  suffer ;  but  even  to 
this  day  no  successful  manager  troubles  himself  much 
about  the  merely  literary  aspect  of  plays  which  draw. 
It  is  more  than  probable,  then,  that  like  any  other 
professional  playwright  of  his  time  Shakspere  began 
his  work,  and  learned  his  trade,  either  by  actual  col- 
laboration with  more  practised  men,  or  by  retouching 
plays  which  for  one  reason  or  another  they  had  aban- 
doned. The  result  of  some  such  process  would  surely 
resemble  Henry  VI. 

Just  how  such  collaboration  took  place  or  resulted, 
of  course,  we  cannot  assert.  In  a  familiar  passage  of 
Henry  VI.,  however,  there  is  a  line  which  we  may  rea- 
sonably guess  to  be  an  example.  Greene,  we  remem- 
ber, in  his  Groatsworth  of  Wit,  strengthened  his  abuse 
of  Shakspere  ^  by  parodying  a  line  from  the  tirade  of 
the  captured  Duke  of   York  against  the  triumphant 

1  See  p.  9. 


74  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

Queen  Margaret.  Here  is  the  passage,^  which  occurs 
both  ill  the  True  Tragedy  and  in  the  folio  :  — 

"  Thou  art  as  opposite  to  every  good 
As  the  Antipodes  are  unto  us, 
Or  as  the  south  to  the  septentrion. 
0  tiger's  heart  wrapt  in  a  woman's  hide  ! 
How  couldst  thou  drain  the  life-blood  of  the  child  ?  "  etc. 

The  italicized  line  was  imitated  in  1600  by  one  Nich- 
olson,^ from  which  fact,  as  well  as  from  Greene's 
allusion  and  its  own  inherent  rant,  one  may  reasonably 
infer  that  it  was  thought  effective.  Now  a  glance  at 
the  passage  where  it  occurs  will  show  that  the  sense 
would  be  complete  without  it ;  and  what  is  more,  that 
the  line  differs  both  in  concreteness  of  conception  and 
in  general  sound  from  the  two  lines  immediately  pre- 
ceding, which  are  much  in  the  manner  of  Greene 
himself.  If  Shakspere,  touching  up  an  old  tirade  of 
Greene's,  had  introduced  —  for  pure  ranting  effect — • 
a  stray  line  of  his  own,  we  might  have  expected  just 
such  a  result  as  is  before  us.  The  example,  of  course, 
is  completely  hypothetical ;  it  will  serve,  however,  to 
suggest  what  Elizabethan  collaboration  was. 

Collaborative,  beyond  doubt,  though  just  where  and 
how  we  can  never  be  sure,  Henry  VI.  is  still  more 
significant  to  us  as  an  example  of  chronicle-history,  a 
kind  of  drama  peculiar  to  the  Elizabethan  stage.  The 
object  of  chronicle-history  distinctly  differed  from  any 
which  we  now  recognize  as  legitimately  theatrical 

1  3  Henry  VI.  I.  iv.  134-138. 
*  Centurie  of  Pray se,  33. 


HENRY   VI  75 

The  tragedy  of  blood,  as  we  have  seen,  was  after  all 
only  an  extravagant  kind  of  juvenile  sensationalism, 
whose  object  was  to  thrill  an  audience ;  the  object  of 
Elizabethan  comedy,  to  which  we  shall  come  later,  was 
the  perennial  object  of  comedy,  —  to  amuse.  The  ob- 
ject of  chronicle-historv ,  on  the  other  hand,  though  of 
course  even  this  kind  of  play  had  to  be  incidentally 
interesting,  was  to  teach  a  generally  illiterate  public 
the  facts  of  national  historv. 

As  a  rule,  the  lower  classes  of  the  time  could  not 
read.  Even  when  they  could,  the  history  of  England 
was  not  conveniently  accessible  ;  it  was  rather  crudely 
digested  in  certain  folio  volumes,  heavy  in  every  sense 
of  the  word,  and  expensive.  At  the  same  time,  im- 
memorial dramatic  traditions  which  survived  from  the 
miracle  plays  made  the  stage  a  normal  vehicle  of 
popular  instruction,  while  the  state  of  public  affairs — 
when  Mary  Stuart  was  lately  beheaded  and  the  Armada 
still  more  lately  dispersed  —  stimulated  patriotic  en- 
thusiasm and  curiosity.  To  tiiis  demand  the  theatre  re- 
sponded by  producing  a  series  of  plays,  from  various 
hands,  which  together  comprised  pretty  nearly  the 
whole  of  English  history.  The  most  familiar  of  the 
series,  of  course,  are  the  plays  of  Shakspere ;  but  to 
go  no  further,  there  were  an  Edivard  I.  by  Peele,  an 
admirable  Edivard  II.  by  Marlowe,  and  an  Edward 
III.  sometimes  thought  Shakspere's  own,  to  prepare 
the  way  for  Richard  II. 

Throughout   the   series  —  in   Shakspere's   work  as 
elsewhere  —  the  writer  of  chronicle-history  conceived 


76  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

his  business  in  a  way  now  foreign  to  anything  theatri- 
caL  He  did  not  trouble  himself  to  compose  a  play  in 
the  modern  sense  of  the  word  ;  there  was  no  ques- 
tion of  formally  developed  plot  or  situation.  He 
simply  went  to  Holinshed  or  some  other  conventional 
authority,  read  the  narrative  sufficiently  for  his  pur- 
poses, selected  —  with  disregard  of  detail,  chronologic 
and  other — what  seemed  to  him  theatrically  effective, 
and  translated  his  selections  into  blank  verse  dialogue. 
Incidentally,  to  be  sure,  as  chronicle-history  strength- 
ened, particularly  in  the  hands  of  Marlowe  and  Shaks- 
pere,  there  grew  up  in  it  some  very  vital  characters. 
We  may  best  understand  Richard  III.  or  Hotspur,  how- 
ever, if  we  realize  that,  from  the  dramatist's  point  of 
view,  their  very  vitality  is  a  part  of  his  effort  to  trans- 
late into  vivid  theatrical  terms  a  patriotic  story  which 
he  found  in  ponderous,  lifeless  narrative. 

Translation,  then,  rather  than  creation,  even  the  most 
serious  writer  of  chronicle-history  must  have  thought 
his  task.  If  he  succeeded  in  translating  Holinshed,  or 
Hall,  or  Stowe,  into  a  form  which  should  entertain  an 
audience  while  informing  them,  he  did  all  he  tried  to 
do.  When  we  consider  the  chronicle-histories  as  origi- 
nally meant  to  be  anything  more  than  translations  from 
narrative  into  presentably  dramatic  terms,  we  fail  to 
understand  them.  So  mucli  is  clear.  Less  clear,  but 
equally  true,  is  the  fact  that  an  Elizabethan  dramatist 
at  work  on  tragedy,  comedy,  or  romance,  really  re- 
garded his  task  as  identical  with  his  obvious  task  when 
he  wrote  chronicle-history.     He  never  invented  his 


HENRY  VI  77 

plot,  if  he  could  help  himself;  except  in  presenting  his 
material  more  effectively  than  it  had  been  presented 
by  others,  he  never,  for  a  moment,  considered  himself 
bound,  as  modern  writers  of  plays  or  fiction  apparently 
consider  themselves  bound,  to  be  original.  He  turned 
to  novels,  to  poems,  to  stories,  to  old  plays,  as  directly 
as  to  chronicles.  When  he  found  anything  to  his  pur- 
pose he  took  it  and  used  it,  with  as  little  qualm  of 
conscience  as  a  modern  man  of  science  would  feel  in 
availing  himself  of  another's  published  investigation. 
Whatever  the  origin  of  his  plot  —  history,  novel,  poem, 
story,  old  play — the  dramatist  treated  it  not  as  a 
creator,  but  as  a  translator. 

So  to  Henry  VI.  As  one  generally  reads  it,  —  after 
Henry  V.,  a  chronicle-history  far  riper  in  form,  —  it 
seems  grotesquely  archaic.  Approached  by  itself, 
however,  it  proves  more  powerful  than  one  expects. 
To  appreciate  it,  one  must  read  fast,  one  must  make 
an  effort  not  to  notice  but  to  accept  the  obsolete  con- 
ventions of  a  theatre  which,  with  no  more  sense  of 
oddity  than  Kingsley  felt  in  making  Hypatia  speak 
English,  compressed  into  less  than  eight  thousand 
lines  of  bombastic  dialogue  forty-nine  years  of  English 
history.  After  all,  these  conventions,  though  obsolete, 
are  not  actually  more  absurd  than  many  of  our  own. 
We  can  learn,  if  we  will,  not  only  to  accept,  but  to  for- 
get them  ;  and  then,  by  placing  ourselves  so  far  as  we 
can  iu  the  mood  of  an  Elizabethan  playgoer,  we  may 
get  even  from  Henry  VI.  an  impression  of  grand  his- 
torical movement.      The  times  the  play  deals  with 


78  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

were  stirring  and  turbulent.  Historic  forces,  of  one 
and  another  kind,  were  beyond  the  control  of  any  in- 
dividual ;  and  in  Henry  VL,  after  a  while,  one  begins 
to  feel  them,  in  all  their  maddening,  tragic  confusion. 
One  feels,  too,  one  hardly  knows  how,  the  lapse  of 
time,  the  growth  and  the  change  which  years  bring. 
Strangely,  unexpectedly,  one  finds  even  in  this  crudely 
collaborative  old  play  the  stuff  of  which  real  history 
is  made. 

An  accident  which  helps  this  effect  is  that,  as  a 
mere  piece  of  literature,  the  Second  Part  is  distinctly 
better  than  the  First,  and  the  Third  nearly  maintains 
the  level  of  the  Second.  In  the  total  effect,  then,  the 
comparative  crudity  of  the  First  makes  it  seem  long 
past.  Even  this  First  Part,  though,  has  a  force  of  its 
own.  Take  the  very  opening.  After  the  extremely 
human  courtship  of  Henry  V.,  which  closes  the  pre- 
ceding play,  the  consecutive  and  ranting  laments 
uttered  by  four  uncles  of  the  infant  Henry  VI., — 

"  Hung  be  the  heavens  with  black  I  "  and  so  on  — 

seem  very  absurd.  We  must  remember,  however,  that 
they  follow  the  conventions  of  a  stage  very  different 
from  ours,  and  that  Henry  V.  comes  about  halfway 
between.  If,  remembering  this,  and  remembering, 
too,  the  keen  lyric  appetite  of  the  Elizabethan  public, 
we  liken  these  laments  to  those  of  the  modern  lyric 
stage,  we  see  them  in  a  different  light.  Sung  in  con- 
cert, with  impressive  music,  they  might  still  make  a 
fine  operatic  quartette.     Then,  immediately,  the  tone 


HENRY   VI  79 

of  these  half-lyric  speeches  changes.  Instantly  comes 
the  discord  of  quarrel,— a  quarrel  which  is  to  end,  after 
half  a  century  of  bloodshed,  in  the  death  of  the  un- 
happy Henry.  This  example  typifies  a  fact  which  we 
must  keep  constantly  in  mind.  At  least  in  its  earlier 
period,  the  Elizabethan  stage  tried  constantly  to  pro- 
duce, by  purely  dramatic  means,  effects  which  would 
now  be  reserved  for  the  opera.  Without  understand- 
ing this,  we  cannot  quite  understand  what  a  play  like 
Henry  VI.  means.  Appreciating  the  operatic  nature 
of  the  ranting  declamation  throughout,  and  of  such 
half-lyric  passages  as  this  opening  quartette,  we  can 
begin  to  feel  what  power  the  play  has. 

In  the  Second  Part,  for  all  its  neglect  of  the  great 
dramatic  possibilities  inherent  in  the  adulterous  love 
of  Suffolk  and  the  Queen,  there  are  two  passages  better 
than  anything  in  the  others.  Both  of  these,  in  the 
folio  version,  seem  at  least  Shaksperean,  if  not  cer- 
tainly Shakspere's.  The  first  is  the  death-scene  of 
Cardinal  Beaufort ;  the  second  is  the  rebellion  of  Jack 
Cade. 

In  the  death-scene  ^  we  have  a  wonderfully  vivid 
picture  of  dying  delirium,  from  which  we  would  not 
spare  a  word.  In  the  Contention  there  is  a  mere 
sketch  of  it,  which  would  seem  wholly  like  a  careless 
abridgment  but  for  the  change  in  a  single  line.  In 
the  Contention,  the  speech  which  stands  for  the  famous 

"  Comb  down  his  hair;  look,  look  !  it  stands  upright, 
Like  lime-twigs  set  to  catch  my  winged  soul,"  etc., 

1  2  Henry  VI.  III.  iii. 


80  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

is  followed  directly  by  a  speech  of  Salisbury,  — 

"  See,  how  the  pangs  of  death  do  gripe  his  heart." 

In  the  folio,  Beaufort's  delirium  is  followed  by  a  fer- 
vent prayer  for  him  by  the  King,  who  is  interrupted 
by  Salisbury  thus  :  — 

"  See,  how  the  paugs  of  death  do  make  him  grin  !  " 

That  change  —  from  "  do  gripe  his  heart "  to  "  do 
make  him  grin  "  —  may  not  be  a  deliberate  change  by 
Shakspere's  hand,  but  surely  nothing  could  be  more 
like  one.  It  has  just  the  added  concreteness  of  phrase, 
just  the  enormous  gain  in  vividness,  which  distin- 
guishes his  style  from  any  other. 

Shaksperean,  too,  seem  all  the  Cade  scenes,^  though 
clearly  they  existed  in  the  Contention^  and  doubtless 
those  that  played  your  clowns  spoke  more  than  was 
set  down  for  them.  Though  it  be  virtually  in  the 
Contention^  however,  the  reasoning  of  the  rioter  who 
maintains  Cade  to  be  a  legitimate  Mortimer  seems  too 
like  Shakspere's  fun  not  to  be  his.  Cade,  we  remem- 
ber, declared  that  his  princely  father  had  been  stolen 
in  infancy  and  apprenticed  to  a  bricklayer :  the  rioter 
confirms  him  ^ :  — 

"  Sir,  he  made  a  chimney  in  my  father's  house,  and 
the  bricks  are  alive  at  this  day  to  testify  it;  therefore  deny 
it  not." 

What  makes  the  scenes  seem  Shaksperean,  however, 
is  not  so  much  any  matter  of  detail  as  the  general 

1  2  Henry  VI.  IV.  ii.-viii.  2  2  Henry  VI.  IV.  ii.  156. 


HENRY   VI  81 

temper  whicli  pervades  them.  Cade's  mob,  though  far 
more  lightly  treated,  is  essentially  the  mob  ot"  Julius 
Ccesar  and  of  Coriolanus.  In  an  earlier,  simpler  form, 
it  expresses  what  by  and  by  we  shall  see  to  be  a  dis 
tinct  trait  of  Shakspere.  His  personal  convictions, 
of  course,  we  can  never  know ;  as  an  artist,  however, 
he  was  consistent  throughout  in  his  contempt  — here 
laughing,  but  later  serious  —  for  the  headless  rabble  : 
wherefore,  very  properly,  Shakspere  is  nowadays  taken 
to  task  by  virtuous  critics  of  a  democratic  turn. 

In  the  Third  Part  of  Henry  VI.  there  are  no  passages 
so  indubitably  effective  as  those  at  which  we  have  just 
glanced.  As  one  reads  the  play  hastily,  however, 
one  feels  in  it  more  than  in  the  two  others  a  definite 
tendency.  From  the  opening  (luartette  of  lament 
breaking  into  discord,  the  First  Part  and  the  Second 
have  been  full  of  turbulent,  confused  disintegration. 
Here  at  last,  in  the  Third  Part,  things  good  and  evil, 
order  and  chaos,  begin  at  last  to  range  themselves ; 
and  slowly  but  surely  defining  itself  as  the  embodi- 
ment of  all  the  evil,  we  feel  the  personality  of  Gloster. 
The  Third  Part  of  Henry  VI.  tends  straight  to  Richard 
III.  In  the  Richard  III.  of  our  modern  stage,  indeed, 
some  of  the  earlier  scenes  are  actually  taken  directly 
from  Henry  VI. 

Our  discussion  of  Richard  III..,  however,  must  come 
later.  For  our  present  purposes  we  have  traced  the 
early  chronicle-history  far  enough.  Whatever  part 
Shakspere  had  in  Henry  VL,  we  have  found  the 
play,   like    Titus  Andronicus,   suggestive   of   the   en- 

6     -^ 


82  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

vironment  in  which  Shakspere's  work  began.  It  has 
helped,  then,  to  define  our  notion  of  the  Elizabethan 
stage.  Essentially  collaborative  rather  than  individual, 
frankly  translative  rather  than  creative  in  method, 
designed  quite  as  much  to  inform  as  to  divert,  often 
more  than  half  lyric  in  mood,  the  chronicle-history 
is  the  most  typical  kind  of  Elizabethan  drama.  As- 
suming its  conventions,  we  may  find  in  Henry  VI. 
much  that  is  permanently  admirable,  and  some  touches 
which  seem  too  good  for  any  hand  but  Shakspere's. 
What  part  he  had  in  it,  however,  must  remain  doubt- 
ful. The  real  light  it  surely  throws  on  his  individu- 
ality amounts  only  to  this :  like  Titus  Andronicus, 
if  either  play  be  in  any  degree  genuine,  it  shows  him 
in  his  beginning  frankly  imitative  and  conventional. 
His  work  is  the  work  of  a  man  patiently  mastering 
the  technicalities  of  his  art,  not  of  one  who  instantly 
impresses  whatever  he  touches  with  that  trait  now- 
adays so  much  admired,  —  originality. 


III.    Love's  Labour's  Lost. 

[Love's  Labour's  Lost  was  published  in  quarto,  in  1598.  On  the  title- 
page  we  are  informed  that  this  version  was  "  presented  before  her 
Highness  this  last  Christmas,"  and  is  "  newly  corrected  and  augmented 
by  W.  Shakespere."  It  is  mentioned  by  Meres ;  and  the  Centurie  oj 
Prayse  cites  a  slightly  doubtful  allusion  to  it  in  1594.  The  source  of 
the  plot  is  unknown.  The  weight  of  opinion  makes  this  the  earliest 
play  unquestionably  assigned  to  Shakspere.  It  is  conjectured  from 
internal  evidence  to  have  been  written  as  early  as  1589  or  1590,  but  to 
have  been  revised  in  1597  for  the  performance  at  court  mentioned  on 
the  titlepage.J 


i 


LOVE'S   LABOUR'S   LOST  83 

In  its  present  form,  Lovers  Labour^ s  Lo%t  is  puzzling. 
There  seems  no  reasonable  doubt  that  it  is  a  very 
early  play,  carefully  revised  for  performance  at  court 
at  a  time  when  Shakspcre  had  completely  mastered 
his  art.  Just  what  is  old  in  it  and  what  new  we  have 
no  certain  means  of  judging;  yet  for  our  study  of 
Shakspere's  development  we  wish  to  consider  not  the 
revised  play,  but  the  original.  While  of  course  we 
can  never  be  sure,  however,  we  may  reasonably  guess 
that  the  correction  and  augmentation  of  1597  was 
chiefly  a  matter  of  mere  style,  —  a  conclusion  in  which 
we  are  supported  by  the  fact  that  out  of  some  1600  lines 
of  verse  nearly  1100  are  rhymed.  The  shallowness  of 
character  throughout,  too,  and  the  obviously  excessive 
ingenuity  of  plot  and  situation,  as  well  as  of  phrase, 
are  unlike  Shakspere's  later  work.  Assuming,  then, 
that  in  general  character  Love's  Labour 's  Lost  is  con- 
temporary with  the  First  Part  of  Henry  VI.,  but  that 
in  detail  it  is  often  seven  or  eight  years  later,  we  are 
warranted,  for  the  moment,  in  neglecting  matters  of 
detail,  and  in  considering  the  play  very  generally. 

Thus  considered,  it  groups  itself  immediately  with 
Titus  Andronicus  and  Henry  VL  Disregarding  the 
mere  matter  of  style, — where  Shakspere's  concreteness 
of  phrase  appears  throughout,  —  we  find  it  essentially 
not  an  original  work,  but  a  vigorous  comedy  in  the 
then  fashionable  manner  of  John  Lyly.  Lyly's  come- 
dies, and  this  too,  are  really  dramatic  phases  of  the 
Renascent  mood  which  started,  not  in  the  translations 
of  Surrey,  but  in  the  Sonnets  of  Wyatt.  Beginning 
with  a  powerful  effort  to  civilize  the  forms  of  a  bar- 


84  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

barous  language,  this  movement,  in  little  more  than 
fifty  years,  had  resulted  in  a  literature  which  at  once 
stimulated  and  gratified  an  insatiable  appetite  for 
graceful  verbal  novelty.  In  Love's  Labour 's  Lost  we 
have  a  capital  example  of  this,  running  now  and  again 
into  frank,  good-natured  burlesque  of  itself.  Graceful 
as  they  are,  these  frothy,  overwrought  fantasies  of 
phrase  and  character  are  nowadays  puzzling;  it  is 
hard  to  realize  quite  how  they  could  ever  have  been 
popular  on  the  stage. 

To  appreciate  this,  we  may  conveniently  recall  a 
fact  we  detected  in  Henry  VI.  What  seemed  there  mere 
bombast  took  on  another  aspect  when  we  considered 
it  not  as  primarily  dramatic,  but  rather  as  operatic. 
On  the  Elizabethan  stage,  we  found,  mere  turns  of 
language  and  half-lyric  cadences  were  conventionally 
used  to  express  moods  which  in  our  own  time  would 
certainly  prefer  the  completely  lyric  form  of  operatic 
compositions.  Looked  at  in  this  light.  Love's  Labour '« 
Lost  grows  more  intelligible.  In  conception  and  in 
style  alike,  it  expresses  a  state  of  artistic  feeling 
which  would  now  express  itself  in  polite  comic  opera ; 
its  endless  rhymes  and  metrical  oddities,  its  quips 
and  cranks,  are  really  not  theatrical  at  all ;  like 
Lyly's  over-ingenious  turns  of  phrase,  they  are  the 
airs,  the  duets,  the  trios,  the  concerted  pieces  of  a 
stage  not  yet  fully  operatic  only  for  want  of  adequate 
development  in  the  art  of  music.  Nor  is  Love's  La- 
bour's Lost  operatic  only  in  detail  :  like  modern  comic 
opera,  such  essentially  lyric  work  as  this  has  no  pro- 
found meaning ;  its  object  is  just  to  delight,  to  amuse  ; 


LOVE'S   LABOUR'S   LOST  85 

whoever  searches  for  significance  in  such  literature 
misunderstands  it. 

The  excessive  ingenuity  of  Love's  Labour'' s  Lost, 
which  often  makes  it  hard  to  read,  makes  it  all  the 
more  worth  the  attention  of  whoever  should  minutely 
study  Elizabethan  style.  The  scope  with  which,  in  its 
final  form,  it  at  once  exemplifies  and  burlesques  the 
literary  fashions  and  affectations  of  its  day,  is  astonish- 
ing. The  deliberate  cuj)huism  of  Armado,^  the  son- 
neteering of  the  King  and  his  courtiers,^  the  pedantry 
of  the  schoolmaster  and  the  curate,^  the  repartee  of 
the  Princess  and  her  ladies,*  the  pertness  of  the  boy 
Moth,^  the  blunders  of  the  clowns,^  the  outworn,  but  at 
the  time  not  yet  outstripped  conventions  of  the  Masque 
of  the  Worthies,"  the  permanent  freshness  of  the  clos- 
ing song,  the  lyric  ingenuity  of  every  page,  —  all 
these,  in  their  bewildering  confusion,  typically  express 
the  temper  of  a  time  when  whoever  wanted  amuse- 
ment was  most  amused  by  verbal  novelty.  Through- 
out, too,  one  can  at  last  begin  to  realize  how  the  ears 
of  Elizabethan  audiences  were  as  eagerly  sensitive  to 
fresh,  graceful,  ingenious  turns  of  phrase  as  modern 
ears  are  to  catching  melodies ;  and  fresh  turns  of 
l)hrase  Shakespere  gave  them  here,  to  their  heart's 
content,  —  now  in  contented  conventional  serious- 
ness, the  next  minute  in  a  frank,  good-natured  burst 
of  burlesque,  —  with  a  ])aradoxical  comprehensiveness 
thoroughly,  if  still  superficially,  individual. 

1  E.g.  I.  i.  232  seq.       -  IV.  iii.  26,  GO,  101.  3  E.g.  V.  i. 

*  E.g.  V.  ii.  1-78.         6  E.g.  I.  ii.  6  E.g.  I.  i.  182  seq. 

'  V.  ii.  523  seq. 


86.  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

From  all  this,  one  would  naturally  expect  Love'g 
Labour  '.s  Lost  to  be  far  from  amusing  on  the  modern 
stage.  Within  a  few  years,  however,  it  has  been 
acted  with  considerable  success.  The  secret  of  vital- 
ity like  this  is  not  to  be  found  in  such  matters  as 
we  have  glanced  at ;  it  must  be  sought  in  something 
not  merely  contemporary,  but  of  more  permanent 
dramatic  value.  Several  things  of  this  kind  are  soon 
perceptible.  In  the  first  place,  the  play  has  an  open- 
air  atmosphere  of  its  own,  a  bit  conventional,  to  be 
sure,  but  romantic  and  sustained ;  you  feel  through- 
out that  what  is  going  on  takes  place  in  just  the  sort 
of  world  where  it  belongs.  In  the  second  place,  there 
are  various  perennially  effective  situations,  such  as  the 
elaborate  concealment  and  eavesdropping  by  which 
the  King  and  his  lords  discover  that  they  have  all 
fallen  from  their  high  resolves  in  common  ;  ^  and 
more  notably  still  such  as  the  elaborate  confusion  of 
identity,  when  the  Princess  and  her  ladies  mask  them- 
selves to  bewilder  their  disguised  lovers.^  In  the 
third  place,  the  elaborate  repartee  of  the  dialogue, 
particularly  in  the  passages  which  make  Biron  and 
Rosaline  so  suggestive  of  Benedick  and  Beatrice, 
though  very  verbal,  is  very  sparkling.^  In  the  fourth 
place,  the  elaborate  introduction  of  a  play  within  a 
play,^  broadly  burlesquing  a  kind  of  literature  which 
was  passing  out  of  fashion,  must  always  have  been 

1  IV.  iii.  1-210. 

2  V.  ii.  158-265. 

•  See  II.  i.  114-128;  and  cf.  Much  Ado,  I.  i.  117-146. 

♦  V.  ii.  523-735. 


LOVE'S   LABOUR'S   LOST  87 

diverting,  if  only  by  way  of  contrast.  Finally,  to  go 
no  further,  the  contrast  of  clowns  and  courtiers  in 
this  very  scene  emphasizes  what  pervades  the  play,  — 
constant  caricature  of  contemporary  absurdity  along 
with  frequent  serious  perpetration  of  the  like. 

To  specify  these  details  has  been  worth  while, 
because,  as  we  shall  see  later,  they  constantly  reappear 
in  the  later  work  of  Shakspere,  who  is  remarkable 
among  dramatists  for  persistent  repetition  of  whatever 
has  once  proved  dramatically  effective.  We  might 
have  specified  more  such  detail ;  we  might  have  studied 
Love's  Labour 's  Lost  far  more  profoundly,  defining 
the  various  affectations  it  commits  or  satirizes,  dis- 
cussing whether  this  part  of  it  or  that  was  meant  for 
a  personal  attack  on  a  rival  company,  and  so  on. 
For  our  purposes,  however,  we  have  touched  on  the 
play  sufficiently.  Contemporary,  in  a  general  way, 
with  Titus  Andronicus  and  Henry  FZ,  and  —  per- 
haps because  so  palpably   corrected  and  augmented 

—  vastly  better  than  either  of  them,  it  groups  itself 
with  them  in  our  view  of  Shakspere  as  an  artist. 
When  he  began  to  write,  comedy  was  more  highly  de- 
veloped than  tragedy  or  history.  His  first  comedy, 
then,  was  more  ripe  than  his  first  work  of  other  kinds  ; 
but  like  them  it  may  be  regarded,  in  the  end,  as  a 
successful  experiment  in  the  best  manner  of  his  time, 

—  not  as  a  new  contribution  to  dramatic  literature. 


88  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 


IV.    The  Comedy  of  Errors. 

[At  Christmas  time,  1594,  a  "Comedy  of  Errors  (like  to  Plautus 
his  Menechmiis)  "  was  played  at  Gray's  Inn.  Meres,  in  1598,  men- 
tioned Errors  among  the  comedies  of  Shakspere.  The  play  was  first 
entered  in  1623,  and  published  in  the  folio. 

Its  source  is  clearly  the  Menechmi  of  Plautus,  probably  in  some 
translation,  and  one  or  two  scenes  from  his  Amphitryon.  Modern 
critics  generally  agree  iu  placing  it,  on  internal  evidence,  before  1591, 
with  a  slight  preference  for  1589  ^  or  1590.] 

In  the  three  plays  we  have  considered,  assuming 
them  to  be  at  least  partly  Shakspere's,  we  found 
him,  in  his  earliest  dramatic  work,  by  no  means  origi- 
nal. Instead  of  trying  to  do  something  new,  he 
devoted  himself  to  writing  a  tragedy  of  blood  much  in 
the  manner  of  Kyd  or  Marlowe,  to  collaborating  in 
a  conventional  chronicle-history  in  which  various 
contemporary  manners  appear,  and  to  making  a 
comedy  in  the  manner  of  Lyly.  If  we  try  to  charac- 
terize this  work  by  a  single  word,  we  can  hardly  find 
a  better  term  than  experimental. 

As  apparently  an  experiment,  the  Comedy  of  Errors., 
like  the  play  we  shall  consider  next,  groups  itself  with 
what  precede.  Like  the  next  play,  however,  —  the 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona.,  —  it  differs  from  the  others 
in  not  imitating  any  one  else.  The  first  three  experi- 
ments seem  unpretentiously  imitative  ;  the  two  follow- 
ing seem  independent. 

1  1589  is  the  latest  year  in  which  the  allusion  to  France  "making 
war  against  her  heir  — "  III.  ii.  127  —  would  have  been  literally 
true. 


THE   COMEDY  OF   ERRORS  89 

Clearly  enough,   the    Comedy    of  Errors  attempts 
to  adapt  for  the  Elizabethan  stage  —  to  translate  into 
contemporary  theatrical  terms  —  a  classic  comedy.    In 
a  way,  the  effort  is  akin  to  that  of  the  poems,  which, 
as  we  saw,  exemplified  the  phase  of  Renascent  feeling 
which  delighted  not  so  much  in  the  formal  graces  of 
foreign  culture  as  in   the  humane  spirit  of  ancient 
literature.     While  in  the  poems,  however,  Shakspere 
altered  and  adapted  Ovid  or  whom  else,  with  excessive 
verbal  care,  to  the  taste  of  the  literary  public,  he 
altered  Plautus,  in  the  Comedy  of  Errors^  for  purely 
theatrical  purposes.    The  resulting  contrast  is  curious. 
The  poems,  in  their  own  day  far  more  reputable  litera- 
ture than  any  contemporary  plays,  became,  from  the 
very  concreteness    of  their   detail,   rather  more  cor- 
rupt in   effect   than  the  originals  from  which  they 
were  drawn.     At  all  events,  they  carry  that  sort  of 
thing  as  far  as  it  can  tolerably  go ;  for  throughout, 
while   dealing    with   matters    which   demand    pagan 
unconsciousness,  they  are  studiously  conscious.     The 
Comedy  of  Errors^  on  the  other  hand, —  in  its  own 
day  a  purely  theatrical  affair,  —  Shakspere  altered  in 
a  way  which  the  most  prim  modern  principles  would 
unhesitatingly    pronounce   for   the   better.     In  Plau- 
tus, for  example,  the  episode  of  the  courtesan  and 
the  chain  is  frankly  licentious  ;    in  Shakspere,  it  is  so 
different  ^  that  without  a  reference  to  Plautus  one  can 
hardly  make  out  why  the  lady  in  question  is  called  a 
courtesan  at  all.     This  trait  we  shall  find  to  be  gen- 

1  III.  ii.  169  seq.;  IV.  i.,  iii. 


90  WILLIAM    SHAKSPERE 

erally  characteristic  of  Shakspere.  Always  a  man  of 
his  time,  to  be  sure,  he  never  lets  the  notion  of  pro- 
priety stand  between  him  and  an  effective  point ;  when 
there  is  nothing  to  prevent,  however,  he  is  decent; 
among  his  contemporaries,  he  is  remarkable  for  refine- 
ment of  taste. 

This  incidental  refinement  of  plot  is  by  no  means 
his  only  addition  to  the  material  of  Plautus.  The 
second  Dromio  is  Shakspere's,  so  is  the  conventional 
pathos  of  -^geon,  so  the  effort  to  contrast  the  shrewish 
Adriana  with  her  gentler  sister.  The  very  mention 
of  these  characters,  however,  calls  our  attention  to 
the  most  obvious  weakness  of  the  Comedy  of  Errors. 
Except  for  conventional  dramatic  purposes,  the  char- 
acters throughout  are  little  more  than  names  ;  they 
are  not  seriously  individualized.  A  convenient  rhe- 
torical scheme  of  criticism  sometimes  states  the  prin- 
ciple that  any  story  or  play  must  have  a  plot, — the 
actions  or  events  it  deals  with  ;  and  that  as  actions 
or  events  must  be  performed  by  somebody,  or  happen 
to  somebody,  somewhere,  any  play  or  novel  must  also 
include  characters  and  descriptions.  A  theoretically 
excellent  play,  then,  consists  of  an  interesting  plot, 
which  involves  individual  characters,  in  a  distinct 
local  atmosphere.  Applying  this  test  to  the  Comedy 
of  Errors,  we  find  a  remarkably  ingenious  and  well- 
constructed  plot,  and  little  else.  Characters  and 
background  might  be  anybody  and  anywhere. 

As  a  piece  of  untrammelled  construction,  as  a  plot 
put  together  with  what  seems  almost  wilful  disregard 


?i 


THE   COMKDY  OF   P:RR0RS  91 

of  other  complications,  tlie  Comedy  of  Errors  most 
clearly  shows  itself  experimental.  In  construction,  to 
be  sure,  the  play  is  theatrically  as  successful  as  any 
in  the  Elizabethan  drama.  Indeed,  it  sometimes  ap- 
proaches the  niceties  of  the  classic  tradition ;  hardly 
anything  else  in  Shakspere  so  nearly  observes  the 
unities.  When  we  have  sufficiently  admired  its  con- 
struction, however,  and  the  general  ease  and  smooth- 
ness of  its  style,  we  have  nearly  exhausted  it. 
Sliakspere,  in  his  mature  years,  is  not  so  soon  ex- 
haustible. This  very  fact,  apart  from  other  evidence, 
would  make  us  guess  the  Comedy  of  Errors  to  come 
early  among  his  writings. 

In  the  plot  thus  carefully  composed,  there  are  at 
least  two  features  worth  our  notice.  The  first,  at 
which  we  need  merely  glance,  is  the  vigorous  effect 
of  dramatic  contrast  produced  by  beginning  this  pro- 
longed farce  with  the  romantic  narrative  of  ^geon's 
shipwreck  and  misfortunes  and  wanderings,  and  by 
ending  it  with  the  still  more  romantic  discovery  that 
the  Abbess  of  Ephesus  is  the  long-lost  wife  whom  he 
has  so  faithfully  mourned.  The  second,  on  which  we 
may  dwell  a  little  longer,  is  the  fundamental  source 
of  all  the  fun  and  trouble,  —  the  elaborate,  double 
confusion  of  identity.  Confusion  of  identity,  we 
remember,  was  one  of  the  effective  stage  devices  in 
Love's  Labour  's  Lost ;  but  there  it  was  merely  a  bit  of 
episodic  masking.  Here  it  is  the  very  essence  of  the 
plot.  It  is  taken,  of  course,  straight  from  Plautus ; 
it  remains  effective  in  extravagant  acting  to  this  day. 


92  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

Nowadays,  however,  and  just  as  much  in  Shakspere's 
time,  it  could  never  have  been  plausible.  In  so  ex- 
travagant a  form  as  that  in  which  we  here  find  it, 
nothing  could  make  it  plausible  except  the  actual  con- 
ventions of  the  classic  stage.  There,  we  remember, 
the  actors  wore  masks.  Mask  two  of  them  alike,  and 
no  eye  could  tell  at  a  glance  which  was  which.  No 
"  make-up  "  on  any  modern  stage  which  reveals  human 
features,  however,  could  possibly  make  two  people 
look  enough  alike  to  warrant  such  theatrically  effec- 
tive confusion  of  identity  as  pervades  the  Comedy  of 
Errors. 


V.    The  Two  Gentlemen  op  Verona. 

[The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  was  mentioned  by  Meres  in  1598. 
Beyond  a  stray  allusion  in  1615  to  making  "  a  virtue  of  necessity,"  ^ 
there  seems  to  be  no  other  extant  notice  of  it  until  its  publication  in 
the  folio  of  1623. 

Its  source  is  some  English  version  of  the  Diana  of  Montemayor,  a 
Portuguese  poet. 

On  internal  evidence  modern  critics  generally  agree  in  placing  it 
early,  —  from  1591  to  1593  or  so.] 

Like  all  the  plays  we  have  considered  so  far,  the 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  seems  experimental ;  like 
the  Comedy  of  Errors^  it  is  not  imitative,  but  inde- 
pendent, and  its  experimental  effect  is  caused  chiefly 
by  the  abnormal  development  of  one  essential  feature, 
to  the  neglect  of  the  other  two.     Here  the  resemblance 

1  IV.  i.  62. 


THE   TWO   GENTLEMEN   OF  VERONA  93 

ends.  The  essential  feature  abnormally  developed  in 
the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  is  not  the  plot,  but  the 
characters.  More  than  what  precede,  then,  this  play 
tends  straight  toward  the  unmistakably  greater  work 
to  come. 

At  bottom,  like  all  the  rest,  it  is  a  dramatic  version 
of  narrative  material.  The  kind  of  narrative  here 
chosen  for  this  translation  is  akin  to  what  probably 
gave  rise  io Love's  Labour'' s  Lost.  Substantially,  both 
of  these  plays,  like  most  of  the  following,  amount  to 
little  more  than  such  stories  as  are  familiar  in  the 
Decameron  and  its  numerous  polyglot  descendants. 
At  least  in  English,  the  old  translators  of  such  fic- 
tion pretended,  with  true  British  cant,  to  didactic 
purpose.^  Clearly,  however,  their  real  purpose  was 
to  amuse ;  and  their  efforts  took  the  form  of  such 
unadorned  plots  as  to-day  suffice  to  stimulate  tlie 
imagination  of  children,  and  sufficed  three  hundred 
years  ago  to  stimulate  anybody's.  When  translating 
such  narrative  into  dramatic  terms,  then,  a  play- 
wright found  his  attention  centred  elsewhere  than 
when  he  was  similarly  translating  chronicle-history. 
In  that  case,  he  was  bound,  while  interesting  his 
audience,  to  instruct  them ;  for,  after  all,  they  received 
chronicle-histories  rather  in  the  mood  of  thoughtless 
students  than  in  that  of  theatre-goers.  The  old 
chronicles,  too,  contained  a  great  deal  more  matter 
than  a  dramatist  could  possibly  use.  With  Italian 
novels  the  case  was  different.      Often  they  were  so 

^  See  the  Introduction  to  Paynter's  Palace  of  Pleasure. 


94  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

short  as  to  need  rather  amplification  than  condensa- 
tion. The  dramatist,  then,  was  forced  to  invent 
something ;  and  here,  as  much  as  when  dealing 
with  classic  comedy,  his  object,  like  that  of  his 
original,  was  to  be  as  entertaining  as  he  could. 

With  such  an  object,  we  have  seen,  Shakspere 
experimentally  introduced  new  factors  into  the  plot 
of  the  Comedy  of  Errors^  handling  the  plot  throughout 
as  carefully  as  he  handled  the  verses  of  his  poems. 
In  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  he  let  his  plot  take 
care  of  itself ;  but,  without  apparently  conceiving  his 
characters  as  very  consistently  individual,  he  enlivened 
them  throughout,  and  thus  incidentally  gave  their 
surroundings  some  definite  atmosphere,  by  adding  to 
the  bare  outline  of  his  plot  any  number  of  subtle 
touches  based  on  observation  of  real  life. 

These  touches  of  character,  which  make  you  feel 
at  any  given  moment  as  if  these  people  were  real, 
pervade  the  play.  Typical  ones  may  be  found  in  the 
first  scene  between  Julia  and  Lucetta,^  so  frankly 
repeated  and  improved  in  the  Merchant  of  Venice ;  ^ 
in  the  mission  of  the  disguised  Julia  to  Sylvia,^  so 
admirably  improved  in  Twelfth  Night  ;'^  and  in  the 
less  beautiful  but  perhaps  more  final  episode  of 
Launce  and  his  dog.^  They  are  not  only  true  to  life  ; 
the  observation,  the  temper,  they  imply  has  a  distinct 
character  of  its  own,  —  a  character  which   anybody 

1  I.  ii.  2  I.  ii. 

8  IV.  iv.  113  seq.  *  L  V.  178  seq. 

6  II.  iii. ;  IV.  iv. 


THE   TWO  GENTLEMEX   OF   VERONA  95 

familiar  with  the  ripe  work  of  Shakspere  knows, 
without  knowing  why,  to  be  peculiar  to  him.  Here, 
at  last,  then,  in  the  experimental  detail  of  a  roman- 
tic comedy,  Shakspere  first  shows  himself  original. 
The  vitality  of  detail  in  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 
gives  it  a  vigor  of  effect  previously  unknown  to  the 
English  stage. 

This  vigor  of  effect,  however,  is  not  so  obvious  as 
it  would  have  been  if  Shakspere,  in  his  later  work, 
had  been  less  economical  of  invention.  Economy  of 
invention  —  perhaps  another  name  for  professional 
prudence  —  made  him  more  apt  than  almost  any 
other  known  writer  to  use  again  and  again  de- 
vices which  had  once  proved  effective.  Among 
mendacious  proverbs,  few  are  so  completely  false  as 
that  which  declares  Shakspere  never  to  repeat ;  it 
were  truer  to  say  that  he  rarely  did  much  else  if  he 
could  help  it.  Whatever  is  notable  in  the  Two  Gen- 
tlemen of  Verona^  then,  appeared  later,  and  more 
effectively,  in  his  more  mature  work.  To  people 
familiar  with  that  mature  work,  this  earlier  version 
of  its  excellences  must  generally  seem  thin  and 
weak.  Considered  where  we  have  placed  it,  however, 
—  after  what  has  preceded,  before  what  is  to  come,  — 
it  still  produces  an  effect  of  great  vitality. 

There  are  two  or  three  situations,  also,  which,  when 
new,  must  have  been  effective  on  the  stage.  Per- 
haps the  most  effective  of  these  come  from  Julia's 
disguising  herself  as  a  boy,^  —  a  device  which,  aa  we 

1  II.  vii. ;  IV.  ii.,  iv. ;  V.  iv. 


96  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

have  seen,  must  have  been  convenient  in  a  theatre 
where  female  parts  were  played  by  boys,  then,  as  now, 
not  habituated  to  skirts.  Less  palpably  effective,  but 
still  unquestionably  so,  are  the  scenes  where  Proteus 
plays  false  to  Valentine.^  The  more  one  considers  the 
fresh  detail  of  this  play,  the  cleverer  it  seems. 

Detail  once  admired,  however,  the  Two  Greiitlemen 
of  Verona  is  by  no  means  masterly.  Not  only  is  the 
plot  hastily  and  clumsily  put  together,  and  therefore 
far  from  plausible,  but  the  characters  themselves  are 
not  generally  conceived  as  consistent  individuals. 
Their  vitality  is  a  matter  of  detail.  Ethically  they 
are  incomplete,  out  of  scale.  From  all  this  results 
an  effect  which,  even  in  its  own  day,  must  have  been 
unsatisfactory.  At  the  end,  our  sympathy  is  clearly 
expected  to  be  with  both  gentlemen,  who  are  duly 
rewarded  with  such  brides  as  romantic  tradition  ex- 
pects them  to  live  happily  with  ever  after.  In  fact, 
we  cannot  sympathize  with  either  of  them.  Proteus 
has  behaved  too  outrageously  to  be  rewarded  at  all ; 
there  is  no  reason  for  his  change  of  heart ;  and  there 
is  no  excuse  for  the  conventional  magnanimity  of 
Valentine.  For  all  its  merits,  the  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verona  remains  in  total  effect  unplausible,  experi- 
mental, artistically  unsatisfactory. 

1  II.  iv.  100  seq. ;  II.  vi. ;  III.  i.,  ii. ;  IV.  ii.  etc. 


SHAKSPERE   ABOUT   1593  97 


VI.   Shakspere  about  1593. 

Uncertain  as  our  chronology  must  be,  we  may  feel 
tolerably  assured  that,  whatever  their  actual  dates, 
and  whatever  subsequent  revision  they  may  have  had, 
the  works  now  before  us  were  substantially  finished 
by  1593.  With  one  or  two  possible  exceptions, 
furthermore,  and  exceptions  which  hardly  alter  the 
general  case,  we  may  fairly  assume  that  in  1593  Shaks- 
pere had  accomplished  little  more.  It  is  worth  while, 
then,  to  pause  for  a  moment,  and  define  our  impres- 
sion of  him  at  that  time.  Venus  and  Adonis,  we 
remember,  was  published  in  that  year,  just  about  his 
twenty-ninth  birtliday.  This  first  serious  publication 
may  fairly  be  counted  an  epoch  in  his  career. 

In  the  course  of  six  years  at  most,  —  the  years  from 
twenty-three  to  twenty-nine,  —  he  had  certainly  suc- 
ceeded in  establishing  himself  as  an  actor,  in  writing, 
wholly  or  in  part,  at  least  seven  noteworthy  plays 
which  have  survived,  and  in  composing  at  least  one 
poem,  of  the  highest  contemporary  fashion,  which  not 
only  succeeded  in  public,  but  attracted  to  him  the 
friendly  patronage  of  a  great  nobleman.  When  we 
stop  to  consider  how  much,  even  of  the  works  we 
have  now  touched  on,  has  remained  in  permanent  lit- 
erature, the  achievement  seems  astounding. 

When  we  turn  to  consider  what  English  literature 
had  otherwise  produced  meantime,  however,  we  find  a 
state  of  things  almost  equally  notable.     In  1587,  we 

7  .^ 


98  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

have  seen,  Elizabethan  literature,  as  we  now  know  it, 
hardly  existed.  In  1588  ^  the  "  Martin  Marprelate  " 
controversy  began.  In  1589  came  the  first  publications 
of  Bacon  and  of  Nash,  and  the  first  volume  of  Hak- 
luyt's  Voyages.  In  1590  appeared  Tamburlaine,  the 
first  publication  of  Marlowe  ;  the  Arcadia^  the  first  of 
Sidney ;  and  the  first  three  books  of  Spenser's  Faerie 
Queene.  In  1591  came  the  first  publications  of  Dray- 
ton and  of  Ralegh,  Sidney's  Astrophel  atid  Stella,  and 
two  volumes  of  minor  verse  by  Spenser.  In  1592, 
along  with  publications  by  Constable,  Greene,  Gabriel 
Harvey,  Lyly,  Marlowe,  and  Nash,  came  Daniel's  first 
publication,  —  the  Sonnets  to  J)eUa.  By  1593,  then, 
Elizabethan  literature  was  well  under  way  ;  the  period 
since  1587  had  been  one  of  unprecedented  literary 
fertility. 

The  mental  activity  displayed  in  the  early  work  of 
Shakspere,  then,  was  a  more  normal  fact  than  it  would 
have  been  during  almost  any  other  six  years  of  Eng- 
lish history.  During  the  same  six  years,  too.  Mar 
lowe,  who  was  just  Shakspere's  age,  had  been  almost 
equally  active.  In  1593  he  was  killed.  Except 
Shakspere,  he  proves,  on  the  whole,  the  most  notable 
literary  figure  of  his  day.  By  comparing  his  work, 
then,  with  the  work  which  Shakspere  accomplished 
during  his  lifetime  we  may  most  conveniently  define 
our  impression  of  Shakspere  himself. 

Tamburlaine,  Marlowe's  first  extant  play,  is  believed 

1  All  notes  of  publication  in  this  study  are  taken  from  Ryland'& 
Chronological  Outlines  of  English  Literature:  Macmillan  :  1890. 


SHAKSPERE    ABOUT    1593  99 

to  have  been  acted  in  1587,  when  he  was  twenty-four 
years  old.  It  was  followed  by  a  Second  Part,  analo- 
gous to  the  Second  Part  of  Henry  VI.,  by  Dr.  Faustus, 
by  the  Jew  of  Malta,  and  by  Edward  II.  There  is  a 
fragment,  too,  of  a  play  on  the  Massacre  at  Paris 
(S.  Bartholomew),  and  of  another  on  Dido,  as  well  as 
a  series  of  very  loose  translations  from  Ovid,  and  the 
ffero  and  Leander  which  we  have  already  considered. 
Doubtless,  too,  Marlowe  had  a  hand  in  other  plays,  — 
perhaps  in  Henry  VI.  and  Richard  III.  The  works 
we  have  mentioned,  however,  undoubtedly  his,  are 
enough  for  our  purpose. 

Putting  aside  Hero  and  Leander,  to  which  we  have 
given  attention  enough,  we  see  at  once  that  Marlowe's 
completed  work  consisted  of  four  blank-verse  trage- 
dies. In  all  of  these  the  plots  are  not  very  carefully 
composed,  the  characters  —  though  broadly  conceived 
—  are  not  minutely  individualized,  and  the  general 
atmosphere  is  one  of  indefinite  grandeur.  In  all  four 
there  are  many  passages  full  of  noble,  surging  imagina- 
tion ;  and  many  more  which  seem  inferior.  Yet  the 
total  effect  of  any  one  of  these  tragedies,  still  more 
the  total  effect  of  all  four,  is  among  the  most  im- 
pressive in  English  literature.  From  the  beginning, 
Marlowe,  as  an  artist,  was  passionately  sensitive  to 
the  eternal  tragedy  which  lies  in  the  conflict  between 
human  aspiration  and  the  inexorable  limit  of  human 
achievement.  In  Tamhurlaine  this  passionate  sense 
of  truth  is  expressed  in  terms  of  a  material  struggle  ; 
in  Faustus  the  struggle  is  spiritual  ;   in  the  Jew   q/ 


100  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

Malta  it  is  racial ;  in  Edward  II.  it  is  personal. 
Whether  the  struggle  be  with  the  limits  of  the  con- 
querable earth,  however,  or  with  those  of  human 
knowledge,  or  with  those  of  ancestral  inheritance,  or 
with  our  own  warring  selves,  the  struggle  is  forever 
the  same.  We  would  be  other  than  we  are ;  other 
than  we  are,  we  may  not  be.  In  all  four  of  Marlowe's 
tragedies  that  great,  true  note  vibrates.  Knowingly 
or  not,  Marlowe  expressed  himself  greatly.  Dead  in 
degradation  before  he  was  thirty  years  old,  he  must 
always  remain  a  great  poet. 

In  turning  from  this  work  to  Shakspere's,  we  are 
instantly  aware  of  a  marked  contrast,  not  wholly  to 
Shakspere's  advantage.  If  all  four  of  Marlowe's  trage- 
dies expressed  but  one  profound  sense  of  truth,  at  least 
they  expressed  that  one  tragic  fact  in  lastingly  noble 
terms.  So  far,  on  the  other  hand,  Shakspere's  tragedy, 
and  history,  and  comedy  has  expressed  nothing  more 
serious  than  is  expressed  in  his  poems,  —  a  flexible 
eagerness  to  adapt  himself  to  the  popular  taste.  Ex- 
perimental we  have  called  his  plays,  and  the  word  will 
equally  apply  to  his  poems.  Clearly  the  first  six  years 
of  Shakspere's  work  indicate  no  profound  perception, 
no  serious  artistic  purpose. 

When  we  consider  Shakspere's  experiments,  how- 
*^ver,  ranging  over  these  first  six  years  of  his  pro- 
fessional life,  we  are  presently  impressed  by  the 
fact  that  no  two  of  them  are  alike.  One  is  a 
tragedy  of  blood,  one  is  a  chronicle-history,  one  is  a 
fantastic  comedy  after  the  manner  of   Lyly,  one  is 


SHAKSPERE   ABOUT  1593  101 

Bomcthing  resembling  a  pseudo-classic  comedy,  one  is  a 
kind  of  romantic  comedy  which  later  Shakspere  made 
peculiarly  his  own,  one  is  a  fashionable  erotic  poem. 
Clearly  another  trait  besides  lack  of  serious  artistic 
purpose  distinguishes  him  from  Marlowe ;  in  view 
of  the  comparative  excellence  of  all  these  works,  it 
would  be  hard  to  find  a  more  excellent  versatility  than 
Shakspere's. 

In  our  study  of  his  poems,  we  dwelt  enough  on  the 
peculiarly  concrete  habit  of  thought  which  marked 
him ;  we  assured  ourselves  that  in  his  mind  words  so 
naturally  stood  for  real  concepts,  that  by  merely  play- 
ing with  words  he  played  unwittingly  with  thoughts, 
too.  His  notable  versatility  proves  to  be  a  second 
trait  as  marked  and  as  permanent.  In  neither  is  there 
so  far  a  trace  of  conscious  originality,  such  as  one 
feels  must  surely  have  underlain  the  passionate  phi> 
losophy  of  Marlowe.  Yet,  in  the  Two  Gentlemen  of 
Verona  we  found  Shakspere  at  last  as  freshly  original 
as  he  had  already  been  versatile.  The  originality  there 
displayed,  however,  was  not  a  matter  of  philosophy, 
not  of  generalization,  not  of  wisdom.  It  was  an  origi- 
nality of  observation,  and  of  humanly  concrete  state- 
ment ;  what  he  did  was  only  to  try  a  new  theatrical 
experiment, —  to  introduce  into  popular  comedy  gleams 
of  real  human  life  hitherto  unknown  there.  This 
originality  seems  only  half-conscious  ;  it  seems  simi)ly 
the  experimental  adaptation  to  his  professional  work 
of  what  he  had  learned  by  actual  experience  of  life  ;  as 
such,  it  would  very  likely  have  seemed  to  him  almost 
accidental. 


102  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

In  three  ways,  then,  although  his  accomplishment 
was  not  yet  permanently  great,  Shakspere's  power 
had  displayed  itself  by  1593.  In  the  first  place,  his 
mind  was  so  made  that  words  and  concepts  seemed 
one,  and  so  his  verbal  gymnastics  proved  unwittingly 
wise  ;  in  the  second  place,  whatever  he  turned  his 
hand  to  he  did  as  well  as  the  next  man,  and  he  turned 
his  hand  to  everything  ;  in  the  third  place,  in  experi- 
menting with  comedy  he  had  stumbled  on  the  fact  and 
the  use  of  his  own  great  faculty  of  observation.  None 
of  these  traits,  however,  are  showy,  none  of  the  kind 
which  either  require  or  command  instant  recognition. 
To  Shakspere,  we  may  guess,  they  may  well  have 
seemed  humdrum  ;  and  these  six  years  little  else  than 
a  prolonged  apprenticeship.  He  had  learned  his  trade ; 
apart  from  this,  he  would  probably  have  thought  that 
he  had  accomplished  nothing. 


VII 

THE   PLAYS  OF  SHAKSPERE,   FROM  A  MIDSUMMER 
NIGHT'S   DREAM  TO   TWELFTH   NIGHT 

I. 

As  the  general  uncertainty  of  our  chronology  must 
indicate,  the  separation  of  some  plays  in  this  chapter 
from  those  in  the  last  is  arbitrary.  Its  justification 
must  rest  chiefly  on  two  facts  which  broadly  distin- 
guish the  groups  :  In  the  first  place,  while  the  interest 
of  the  preceding  plays  is  chiefly  historical,  the  interest 
of  those  to  come  remains  intrinsic ;  apart  from  any 
historical  conditions  they  are  often  in  themselves  de- 
lightful. In  the  second  place,  while  in  the  preceding 
plays  one  finds  at  bottom  hardly  anything  more  signi- 
ficant than  versatile  technical  experiment,  one  finds 
throughout  those  to  come  constant  indications  of 
growing,  spontaneous,  creative  imagination. 

In  an  artist  of  whatever  kind,  a  period  of  vigorous 
creative  imagination  declares  itself  after  a  fashion 
which  people  who  are  not  of  artistic  temperament 
rarely  understand.  The  artist  does  not  feel  that  he 
has  something  definite  to  say,  —  that  he  has  a  state- 
ment to  make  ;  but  when  he  is  about  his  work,  or 
perhaps  before,  he  is  constantly  aware  of  a  haunting 
mood  which  will  not  let  him  rest  until  he  has  some 


104  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

how  expressed  it.  What  that  mood  signifies  in  the 
scheme  of  the  eternities  he  may  as  likely  as  not  neither 
know  nor  care.  All  he  need  certainly  know  is  that, 
without  being  able  to  tell  why,  he  feels  somehow  with 
painful  acuteness ;  what  he  cares  for  is  chiefly  to 
express  his  feeling  in  such  manner  as  shall  get  rid  of 
it.  If  he  be  a  man  of  genius,  his  work  under  these 
conditions  will  be  of  lasting  value ;  if  not,  it  may  be 
comically  insignificant.  To  the  artist,  this  is  a  matter 
of  accident :  to  himself  a  man  of  genius  is  as  common- 
place as  a  plough-boy.  The  thing  for  us  to  remark, 
then,  in  this  chapter  and  in  the  two  following,  is  that 
throughout,  to  greater  or  less  degree,  the  plays  and 
the  poems  seem  born  of  true  artistic  impulse,  of  that 
trait,  uncomfortable  to  great  folk  and  small,  which  at 
times,  to  any  artistic  temperament,  makes  the  legends 
of  inspiration  seem  almost  credible. 

As  generally  of  lasting  artistic  value,  then,  —  as 
palpably  works  of  genius, — the  writings  to  come  must 
be  read  in  a  different  mood  from  those  which  pre- 
cede. To  understand  them  we  must  not  only  train 
ourselves  to  appreciate  how  they  impressed  Eliza- 
bethans three  liundred  years  ago  ;  we  must  actually 
enjoy  them  ourselves.  So  essential  is  this,  indeed, 
and  so  great  the  lasting  enjoyment  which,  as  we 
know  them  better,  we  may  find  throughout  them,  that 
in  many  moods  to  busy  ourselves  with  them  further 
seems  wasted  time,  —  worse  still,  it  often  seems  Hke 
pedantic  blindness  to  the  constant  delights  which 
alone  have  made  tliem  permanent.     In  the  end,  how- 


A   MID8UMMKR   NIGHT'S   DREAM  105 

ever,  if  we  assume  in  ourselves  the  full  power  of 
enjoyment,  of  artistic  appreciation,  and  if  we  test  it 
now  and  again  by  reading  for  pure  pleasure  the  works 
which  in  our  coming  study  we  must  discuss,  we  shall 
gain  from  our  discussion  the  only  thing  which  could 
really  justify  it,  —  an  increased  power  of  enjoyment. 
These  general  facts  are  nowhere  clearer  than  in  the 
Midsummer  Night'' s  Dream. 

II.     A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

[The  Midsummer  Nir/ht's  Dream  was  entered  in  tlie  Stationers' 
Register  on  October  8th,  1600.  During  the  same  year  it  was  twice 
published  in  quarto,  with  Shakspere's  name.  It  was  mentioned  by- 
Meres,  in  1598. 

The  sources,  none  of  them  closely  followed,  are  many  and  various 
Among  them  are  probably  the  life  of  Theseus  in  'Sorth's  Plutarch  ; 
Ciiaucer's  Kni(/lit's  Tale,  Wife  of  Bath's  Tale,  and  Lef/end  of  Good 
Women ;  and  perhaps  Golding's  Ovid.  The  fairy  scenes  have  obvious 
relation  to  the  actual  folk-lore  of  the  English  peasantry.  Besides,  the 
sources  of  both  the  Comedi/  of  Errors  and  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 
probably  affect  this  play,  too. 

Conjectures  as  to  the  origin  and  date  of  the  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream  vary.  Some  hold  that  the  play  was  made,  like  Milton's  Comus, 
for  a  wedding  festival  The  conjectures  as  to  date,  based  on  internal 
evidence,  —  verse-tests  and  allusions,  —  vary  from  1590  to  1595,  with  a 
slight  preference  for  1594  ] 

The  first,  constant,  and  last  effect  of  the  Mid- 
summer Night's  Bream  is  one  of  poetry  so  pervasive 
that  one  feels  brutally  insensitive  in  seeking  here 
anything  but  delight.  Nowhere  does  Shakspere  more 
fully  justify  Milton's  words  :  ^  — 

•1  U  Allegro. 


106  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

"  Then  to  the  well- trod  stage  anon. 
If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on, 
Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child, 
Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild." 

Nothing  of  Shakspere's,  on  the  other  hand,  better 
confutes  the  saying  which  Drummond  of  Hawthornden 
attributes  to  Ben  Jonson,  that  Shakspere  wanted  art. 
While  it  is  undoubtedly  true  that,  over  and  over  again, 
Shakspere  stopped  far  short  of  such  laborious  finish  as 
makes  the  plays  of  Jonson,  whatever  else,  so  admirably 
conscientious,  it  is  equally  true  that  when  Shakspere 
chose  to  take  pains  his  technical  workmanship  was 
as  artistic  as  his  imaginative  impulse.  Few  works 
in  any  literature  possess  more  artistic  unity  than 
the  Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream,  few  reveal  on  study 
more  of  that  mastery  whose  art  is  so  fine  as  to 
seem  artless.  Alike  in  spirit  and  in  form,  then, — 
in  motive  and  in  technical  detail,  —  this  play  is  a  true 
work  of  art ;  its  inherent  beauty  is  the  chief  thing  to 
realize,  to  appreciate,  to  care  for. 

If  we  would  understand  why  thQ  Midsummer  Night'' 8 
Dream  seems  to  belong  in  Shakspere's  work  where 
we  have  placed  it,  however,  we  must  for  a  while 
neglect  this  prime  duty  of  enjoyment,  and  consider 
the  play  minutely,  attending  first  to  the  materials 
of  which  it  is  made,  and  then  to  the  way  in  which  it 
handles  them. 

Putting  aside,  as  needless  for  our  purpose,  those 
various  and  scattered  sources  which  are  believed  pecu- 
liarly its  own,  we  may  conveniently  recall  the  fact 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM  107 

that  in  the  three  comedies  already  considered  we 
found  certain  devices  and  situations  which  seemed 
notably  effective.*  In  Love's  Labour  's  Lost,  among 
other  matters,  we  noted  a  fresh,  open-air  atmosphere, 
a  burlesque  j)lay  performed  by  characters  whose  rude- 
ness and  eccentricity  was  in  broadly  comic  contrast  to 
the  culture  of  their  audience,  and  the  perennially 
amusing  confusion  of  identity.  In  that  case,  however, 
the  confusion  was  reached  by  the  unplausible  device 
of  masking.  A  stage  mask,  covering  only  the  upper 
features,  must  leave  the  mouth  free  ;  consequently, 
it  does  not  transform  the  wearer,  and  such  blunders  as 
the  King's  or  Biron's  require  an  audience  convention- 
ally to  accept  a  disguise  which  really  is  none.  Con- 
fusion of  identity,  however,  thus  found  effective  even 
when  not  plausible,  was  repeated  and  elaborately 
developed  in  the  Comedy  of  Errors.  Here,  again, 
though,  it  lacked  plausibility  ;  the  audience  was  asked 
to  accept  a  degree  of  personal  likeness  attainable  on 
the  stage  only  by  means  of  such  masks  as  were  worn 
by  the  Roman  actors  for  whom  the  plot  was  originally 
made.  To  hasten  on,  we  remarked,  among  other 
effective  traits  in  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  the 
love-inspired  treason  of  Proteus,  and  his  instanta- 
neous shifts  of  affection  ;  though  effective,  however, 
these  were  neither  plausible  nor  sympathetic.  To 
go  no  further,  here  are  a  number  of  stage  devices, 
already  used  experimentally  by  Shakspere  with  proba- 
ble success,  but  never   in   a   way  which  could  give 

1  See  pp.  86,  91,  96. 


108  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

either  writer,   spectator,   or   reader    serious    artistic 
satisfaction. 

In  the  Midsummer  NigMs  Dream  all  these  are 
reproduced,  but  none  experimentally.  Each  has  its 
place  in  a  composition  so  complete  that  at  sensitive 
moments  one  shrinks  from  dissecting  it ;  and  all  are 
plausible.  The  scene  is  laid  in  a  mythical  world  far 
enough  from  reality  to  make  the  wood-notes  seem  that 
of  its  inevitable  atmosphere.  The  situation  of  the 
burlesque  play  is  reproduced  with  a  firmer  hand  ;  and 
this  time  the  burlesque  interlude  has  a  plot,  of  which 
we  shall  see  more  later.^  The  love  treason  is  trans- 
ferred from  a  tolerably  cool  man  to  an  emotionally 
overwrought  girl ;  thereby,  while  retaining  all  its  the- 
atrical effect,  it  becomes  at  once  far  less  deliberate  and 
far  more  sympathetic.^  While  Proteus  tells  Valen- 
tine's secret  to  the  Duke,  too,  Helena  tells  Hermia's 
only  to  her  lover.  Finally,  both  confusion  of  identity 
and  protean  changes  of  affection  ^  are  made  plausible, 
like  very  dreams  themselves,  by  bodily  transference  to 
a  dream-world,  where  the  fairies  of  English  folk-lore 
play  endless  tricks  with  mortals  and  with  one  another, 
making  their  fellow-beings  fantastically  their  sport. 

These  instances  are  enough  to  show  why  we  may 
reasonably  call  this  play,  in  Shakspere's  development, 
a  first  declaration  of  artistic  consciousness.  A  con- 
fusion of  pleasant  motives,  already  used  in  unsatis- 

1  See  p.  116. 

2  Cf.  T.  G.  III.  i.  1-50  with  M.  N.  D.  I.  i.  226  seq. 

3  Cf.  T.  G.  II.  iv.  192  seq.  with  M.  N.  D.  II.  ii.  103  seq. ;  IIL  i 
132  seq.,  etc. 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM  109 

factory  form,  may  be  guessed  to  have  gathered  in  his 
mind.  Whoever  has  had  a  gleam  of  artistic  experi- 
ence—  such  as  the  haunting  line,  for  example,  which 
belongs  inevitably  in  some  unwritten  sonnet  —  knows 
that  such  spirits  as  these  can  be  laid  only  by  expres- 
sion. There  need  be  no  didactic  purpose  here ;  in  one 
sense  there  need  hardly  be  purpose  at  all.  If  we 
imagine  that  the  Shakspere  we  have  already  defined 
was  thus  possessed  by  creative  impulse,  we  imagine 
enough  to  account  for  the  Midsummer  JVighfs  Dream. 

So  much  for  the  artistic  motive  of  the  play.  Turn- 
ing to  the  technical  art  by  which  this  is  made  mani- 
fest, we  may  conveniently  consider  it  in  the  three 
aspects  which  we  have  earlier  seen  to  be  essential  to 
any  narrative  or  dramatic  composition :  plot,  charac- 
ter, and  atmosphere,  or  background. 

To  a  modern  reader,  the  plot  of  the  Midsummer 
NighVs  Dream  seems  to  concern  itself  chiefly  with  the 
doings  of  the  fairies,  who  are  so  constantly  charming, 
and  of  the  clowns,  who  are  so  constantly  amusing. 
Even  to-day,  however,  a  sight  of  the  play  on  the  stage 
reveals  at  once  that,  so  far  as  plot  is  concerned,  these 
matters  are  accessory  ;  that  the  real  centre  of  the  plot 
is  the  love-story  of  the  four  Athenians.  The  artis- 
tic purpose  of  all  the  rest  is  simjjly  to  make  this 
plausible.  With  this  purpose,  the  play  begins  with 
a  statement  of  the  condition  of  affairs  in  the  romantic 
Athens  of  Theseus, —  not  a  real  world,  but  a  world  no 
further  removed  from  realitv  than  itlentv  of  others 
which  we  are  accustomed  conventionally  to  accept  on 


110  AVILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

the  stage.  Thence,  and  not  from  the  actuality  of  real 
life,  we  proceed  through  the  extravagant  buffoonery 
of  the  clowns  —  the  most  grotesque  of  human  beings, 
but  still  grotesquely  human  —  to  the  dreamland  of  the 
fairies.  This  dreamland,  after  all,  is  little  further 
removed  from  the  romantic  introductory  Athens  of 
Theseus  than  that  Athens  itself  was  from  the  world 
where  it  found  us.  Once  in  dreamland,  the  fantastic  ex- 
travagances of  the  main  plot  —  in  their  earlier  forms 
so  far  from  credibility  —  are  kept  constantly  plausible 
by  the  superhuman  agencies  which  direct  them  ;  and 
these  in  turn  are  kept  plausible  by  the  incessant  inter- 
mingling and  contrast  with  the  fairies  of  the  equally 
extravagant,  but  still  fundamentally  human  clowns. 
Then,  after  some  three  acts  of  this,  the  morning 
horns  of  Theseus  break  the  dream  ;  the  fairies  vanish  ; 
we  come  back  to  our  own  world  through  the  romantic 
Athens  of  Theseus,  with  which  we  began.  The  fifth 
act  recapitulates,  almost  musically  ;  the  final  scene  of 
the  fairies  is  not  a  part  of  the  action,  but  an  epilogue, 
a  convention  frequent  in  the  Elizabethan  theatre. 
The  fairy  scenes,  then,  —  the  accessories  by  means 
of  which  the  main  plot  is  made  artistically  plausible, 
—  are  themselves  made  plausible  first  by  deliberate 
removal  from  real  life ;  and  secondly  by  deliberate 
contrast  with  a  phase  of  real  life  hardly  less  extrava- 
gant than  they.  The  constructive  art  here  shown  is 
admirable. 

At  first,  too,  this  constructive  art  seems  original. 
On  consideration,  however,  it  proves  to  be  only  an 


A   MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S    DREAM  IH 

adaptation  of  a  convention  common  on  the  Elizabethan 
stage.  Though  among  Shakspere's  works  an  Induction 
is  found  only  in  the  Taming  of  the  Slireiv,  Inductions  — 
which  made  the  main  action  a  play  within  a  play  — 
were  very  frequent  throughout  the  early  drama.  We 
shall  have  more  to  say  of  them  when  we  come  to  the 
Taming  of  the  Shrew}  Here  it  is  enough  to  point  out 
that  the  first  act  of  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  is, 
essentially,  a  very  skilful  development  of  the  conven- 
tional Induction. 

The  plot  of  the  Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream,  then,  is 
far  superior  to  anything  we  have  met  before.  When 
we  come  to  the  characters  we  find  a  state  of  things 
less  favorable  to  our  notion  that  the  play  should 
be  placed  here  in  Shakspcre's  artistic  develop- 
ment. Certainly  less  individual  than  those  of  the 
Two  Geiitlemen  of  Verona,  these  characters  seem 
almost  less  so  than  those  of  Love's  Labour's 
Lost.  Taken  by  themselves,  for  example,  the  Athe- 
nians of  the  court  of  Theseus  seem  hardly  more 
individual  than  the  Ephcsians  of  the  Comedy  of 
Errors.  Considered  not  by  themselves,  however,  but 
rather  as  one  of  three  clearly  defined  groups,  their 
aspect  changes ;  they  stand  in  marked  and  strongly 
dramatic  contrast  to  two  other  groups,  as  distinct 
from  one  another  as  from  the  Athenian  courtiers,  — 
the  clowns  and  the  fairies.  In  answer,  then,  to  those 
critics  who,  largely  on  the  score  of  individualized  char- 
acter, would  place  the  Midsummer  Night' s  Dream  earlier 
than  the  Tivo  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  we  may  say  that, 

^  See  p.  1 5!t. 


112  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

like  the  other  plays  considered  in  the  last  chapter,  the 
latter  is  intrinsically  experimental,  while  the  former  is 
intrinsically  artistic  ;  and  that  three  broadly  general- 
ized groups  of  character,  whose  mutual  relations  are 
skilfully  adjusted,  fit  the  general  artistic  motive  of  the 
Midsummer  NighVs  Dream  far  better  than  could  more 
individual  characters  whose  individuality  should  make 
them  a  bit  unmanageable.  In  the  Two  G-entlemen 
of  Verona^  furthermore,  the  individual  touches  were 
rather  matters  of  experimental  detail  than  of  creative 
imagination.  The  contrast  defines  a  general  truth  : 
Because  a  writer  can  individualize  character,  it  does 
not  follow  that  he  can  master  and  manage  his  own  in- 
dividual creatures.  In  the  perfectly  manageable  vague- 
ness of  character  here,  then,  we  have  fresh  evidence  of 
how  careful  Shakspere's  art  may  have  been.  As  we 
have  seen,  if  our  chronology  be  not  all  wrong,  his 
power  developed  slowly.  Here,  then,  we  may  at  least 
guess  that  the  state  of  things  shows  him  in  a  truly 
artistic  mood,  too  wise  even  to  attempt  things  at  all 
beyond  his  certain  power. 

In  one  scene,  though,  the  juvenility  of  character 
seems  too  great  for  any  such  explanation  ;  this  is  in 
the  child-like  squabble  between  Hermia  and  Helena.^ 
On  the  stage,  to  be  sure,  it  is  still  funny  ;  but  the 
fun  is  crude  :  grown  girls,  we  feel,  never  squabble 
quite  in  this  way.  Properly  to  appreciate  the  scene, 
we  must  remember  the  circumstances  for  which  it 
was  written  :  there  were  no  female  actors,  —  a  fact 
which  goes  far  to  atone  for  the  coarseness  of  female 

1  Til.  ii.  282-344. 


A   iMIDSUMMER   NIGHT'S    DRKA.M  llo 

character  common  throughout  the  lesser  Elizabethan 
drama ;  Helena  was  written  to  be  played  by  a  big  boy, 
Hcrmia  by  a  small  one. 

If  we  be  inclined  to  wander  in  our  deliglit  with 
the  atmosphere  of  the  Midsummer  NUjMs  Dream,  a 
fact  liice  this  should  recall  us  to  ourselves.  Dainty 
as  its  atmosphere  is,  specific  too  as  distinguished  from 
any  other  in  literature,  the  play  itself  could  never 
have  seemed  to  its  writer  only  the  beautiful  poem 
which  it  chiefly  seems  to  us.  He  made  it  for 
living  actors, —  men  and  boys.  The  fairy  atmos- 
phere was  to  be  conveyed  to  his  audience  not 
only  by  the  lovely  lines  which  remain  as  fresh 
as  ever,  but  by  the  bodily  presence  of  child-actors, 
whose  actual  forms  should  revive  among  the  specta- 
tors the  familiar  old  fancies  of  the  little  people. 
Such  fancies,  far  from  what  arise  nowadays  as  we 
contemplate  in  the  Midsummer  NighCs  Dream  the 
stout  legs  of  a  middle-aged  ballet,  could  be  more  than 
suggested  on  the  stage  of  Shakspere's  time.  It  was 
a  stage  whose  conventions  allowed  Macbeth  and  Ban- 
quo,  fifteen  years  later,  to  make  their  entrance  on 
wicker  hobby-horses,  with  dangling  false  legs^ ;  whose 
conventions  permitted  Cleopatra  to  wear  laced  stays, 
which  she  orders  cut  in  a  moment  of  agitation.^  On 
such  a  stage,  the  pink  limbs  of  chubby  children  — 
and  the  lesser  fairies  who  serve  Bottom  have  no  lines 
which  might  not  be  taught  a  child  of  three  or  four^  — • 

1  See  p.  309.  '^  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  I.  iii.  71. 

8  III.  i.  166  seq.  ;  IV.  i. 

8 


114  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

might  have  seemed  almost  actually  the  fairy  fancies 
which  remain  the  folk-lore  of  Northern  Europe. 

Here  and  there,  among  modern  peasantry,  such  folk- 
lore still  survives,  much  as  it  was  when  Shakspere 
wrote.  The  contrast  between  his  way  of  dealing  with 
it  and  ours  is  typical  of  the  change  in  the  times. 
He  asked  himself,  as  an  artist,  how  it  might  serve 
his  artistic  purpose ;  and  using  it  accordingly,  he 
made  it  the  lasting  type  of  cultivated  romantic  tra- 
dition. If  Spenser's  fairies  never  quite  lived,  and 
Drayton's  have  long  been  forgotten,  Shakspere's  will 
always  remain  the  lasting  little  people  of  the  English 
ages.  Men  of  our  time  treat  the  old  stories  differ- 
ently, asking  not  what  may  be  done  with  them,  but 
what  they  mean.  In  the  legends  of  the  little  people, 
some  wise  contemporaries  of  ours  fancy  that  they 
can  trace  lingering  race-memories  of  the  dwarfish 
aborigines  of  Europe.  When  our  own  ancestors 
drove  them  back  toward  the  northern  snows,  these 
scholars  guess,  some  may  have  lingered  in  caves  and 
burrows,  emerging  at  night,  brutishly  grateful  to  who- 
ever was  kind,  mischievous  to  whoever  plagued  them. 
So,  perhaps,  there  are  modern  minds  who  may  get 
from  the  Midsummer  NigJifs  Dream  more  satisfaction 
in  pointing  out  that  the  name  of  Oberon  is  a  version  of 
that  of  the  dwarf  king  Alberich  —  himself  doubtless 
some  prehistoric  Eskimo  —  than  in  giving  themselves 
over  to  the  delights  of  Oberon's  dreamy  realm. 

As  students  not  of  science,  but  of  literature,  how- 
ever, we  should  never  lose  sight  of   these  delights. 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S   DREAM  115 

Our  study  has  compelled  us  to  analyze  in  this  play 
something  besides  its  beauty.  If  we  would  under- 
stand Shakspere,  however,  its  beauty,  not  its  anat- 
omy, is  what  we  must  think  of  first,  last,  and  always. 
Its  beauty  is  what  Shakspere  must  have  cared  for 
and  thought  of.  As  a  true  creative  artist,  indeed, 
he  was  probably  less  conscious  of  its  mechanism 
than  our  study  has  made  us.  An  artist  who  has 
real  creative  impulse  generally  works  by  an  unwit- 
ting instinct,  with  a  truth  which  makes  his  work 
both  significant  and  organic ;  sometimes  it  seems 
as  if  a  critically  conscious  artist  could  never  create 
like  one  who  believes  himself  to  work  untrammelled, 
to  say  things  as  he  says  them,  because,  without 
troubling  himself  as  to  why,  he  feels  sure  that 
just  thus  they  should  be  said.  Some  mood  like  this 
seems  to  underlie  the  famous  criticism  of  Theseus 
on  this  very  fairy  story.  By  appreciating  that,  after 
all,  we  may  best  appreciate  the  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream :  ^  — 

"  I  never  may  believe 
These  antique  fables,  nor  these  fairy  toys. 
Lovers  and  madmen  have  such  seething  brains, 
Such  shaping  fantasies,  that  apprehend 
More  than  cool  reason  ever  comprehends. 
The  lunatic,  the  lover  and  the  poet 
Are  of  imagination  all  compact: 
One  sees  more  devils  than  vast  hell  can  hold, 
That  is,  the  madman  :  the  lover,  all  as  frantic, 
Sees  Helen's  beauty  in  a  brow  of  Egypt  : 

1  V  i.  2-17. 


116  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling, 

Doth  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to  heaven, 

And  as  imagination  hodies  forth 

The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 

Turns  them  to  shapes  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 

A  local  habitation  and  a  name." 


III.   Romeo  and  Juliet. 

[An  imperfect  and  probably  unauthorized  quarto  of  Romeo  and  Juliet 
was  published  anonymously  in  1597.  A  tolerably  complete  quarto, 
also  anonymous,  appeared  in  1599;  there  was  a  third  quarto  in  1609. 
The  play  is  attributed  to  Shakspere  by  Meres;  and  the  Centurie  of 
Prayse  cites  an  allusion  to  it  as  Shakspere's  in  1595. 

The  story,  a  very  old  one,  occurs  in  various  forms  and  languages. 
The  immediate  sources  of  the  play  are  two  English  versions  of  a 
French  version  of  a  novel  by  Bandello:  Romeiis  and  Jidiet,  a  long 
poem  by  Arthur  Brooke,  published  in  1562;  and  Paynter's  Palace  oj 
Pleasure. 

Conjectures  as  to  date  range  from  1591  to  the  second  quarto.  The 
general  opinion  seems  to  be  that  there  was  an  early  play,  perhaps 
collaborative,  which  Shakspere  slowly  rewrote  at  intervals.  The  play, 
in  its  present  form,  may  be  reasonably  placed  near  the  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream,  about  1594  or  1595.] 

One  reason  for  grouping  together  the  Midsummer 
Night'' s  Dream  and  Romeo  and  Juliet  lies  in  the  fact 
that  the  story  of  the  latter  is  virtually  the  same  as 
that  of  Pyramus  and  TJiishe.  As  in  Love's  Labour 's 
Lost,  Shakspere  at  once  practised  and  burlesqued  the 
absurdities  of  fashionable  style,  so  here  he  seems  a  bit 
later  to  treat  this  tragic  tale  in  two  distinct  moods : 
in   one,   he    makes    of    it    a   play   which,   whatever 


ROMEO   AND  JULIET  117 

its  date,  is  generally  admitted  to  be  his  first  great 
tragedy  ;  in  the  other  he  turns  it  into  a  burlesque 
vvhich  emphasizes  every  point  of  the  tragedy  where 
the  sublime  verges  on  the  ridiculous.  Another  thing 
which  groups  the  plays  together  is  Mercutio's  lyric 
interlude  al)Out  Queen  Mab,^ — a  passage  so  fatal  to 
modern  actors,  who  try  to  make  it  a  part  of  the 
action.  Clearly,  however,  the  relation  of  Romeo  and 
Juliet  to  the  Midsummer  NighVs  Dream  is  even  more 
debatable  than  we  found  the  relation  between  that 
play  and  the  preceding  comedies. 

The  relation  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  to  its  sources,  on 
the  other  hand,  —  to  matter  distinctly  not  Shaks- 
perean,  —  is  very  close  indeed.  Most  of  us  know  the 
play  so  well,  and  think  of  it  so  constantly  as  Shaks- 
pere's  from  beginning  to  end,  that  a  direct  comparison 
of  some  familiar  passages  and  their  sources  is  worth 
while.  It  will  show  more  palpably  than  any  similar 
comparison  of  less  familiar  matters  how  completely 
an  Elizabethan  dramatist  looked  upon  his  task  as 
mere  translation.^  Two  examples  will  serve  our  pur- 
pose :  the  first  is  that  which  Shaicspere  translated 
into  the  familiar  character  of  the  Nurse,  so  often 
talked  about  as  peculiarly  his  own  ;  the  second  is  that 
which  he  translated  into  the  soliloquy  of  Juliet  when 
she  drinks  the  sleeping-draught.  These  are  broadly 
typical  not  only  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  throughout,  but 
also  of  Shakspere's  plays  in  general,  and  indeed  of 
the  whole   Elizabethan  drama. 

'  I.  iv.  .53-9.5.  *  See  p.  76. 


118  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

In  Paynter's  version  of  the  story  ^  there  is  nothing 
more  than  mention  that  Juliet's  governess,  an  old 
woman,  was  the  go-between  for  the  lovers  ;  and  this 
is  said  to  be  all  that  exists  in  either  the  French  ver- 
sion or  the  Italian.  Brooke,  on  the  other  hand,  intro- 
duces the  following  passage  :  ^  — 

"  To  Romeus  she  goes  of  him  she  doth  desyre, 
To  know  the  mean  of  mariage  by  councell  of  the  fryre. 
On  Saterday,  quod  he,  if  Juliet  come  to  shrift, 
She  shall  be  shrived  and  maried,  how  lyke  you  noorse  this  drift  ? 
Now  by  my  truth  (quod  she)  gods  blessing  have  your  hart ; 
For  yet  in  all  my  life  1  have  not  heard  of  such  a  part. 
Lord,  how  you  yong  men  can  such  crafty  wiles  devise, 
If  that  you  love  the  daughter  well  to  bleare  the  mothers  eyes. 

Now  for  the  rest  let  me  and  Juliet  alone  : 

To  get  her  leave,  some  feate  excuse  I  will  devise  anone 

For  that  her  golden  locks  by  sloth  have  been  unkempt : 

Or  for  unwares  some  wanton  dreame  the   youthfull  damsell 

drempt, 
Or  for  in  thoughts  of  love  her  ydel  time  she  spent : 
Or  otherwise  within  her  hart  deserved  to  be  shent. 
I  know  her  mother  will  in  no  case  say  her  nay: 
I  warrant  you  she  shall  not  fayle  to  come  on  Saterday. 
And  then  she  sweares  to  him,  the  mother  loves  her  well : 
And  how  she  gave  her  suck  in  youth  she  leaveth  not  to  tell. 
A  pretty  babe  (quod  she)  it  was  when  it  was  yong  : 
Lord,  how  it  could  full  pretely  have  prated  with  it  tong. 
A  thousand  time  and  more  I  laid  her  on  my  lappe, 
And  clapt  her  on  the  buttocke  soft  and  kist  where  I  did  clappe. 

'  Both  Paynter's  version  and  Brooke's  were  published  by  the  New 
Shakspere  Society,  ed.  P.  A.  Daniel,  in  1875.  They  occur  also  in 
Hazlitt's  Shalcspere's  Library. 

^  Romeus  and  Juliet,  631  seq. 


ROMEO   AND  JULIET  119 

And  gladder  then  was  I  of  such  a  kisse  forsooth : 
Then  I  had  been  to  have  a  kisse  of  some  olde  lechers  mouth. 
And  thus  of  Juliets  youth  began  this  prating  noorse, 
And  of  her  present  state  to  make  a  tedious  long  discoorse. 
For  .  .  when  these  Beldams  sit  at  ease  upon  theyr  tayle  : 
The  day  and  eke  the  candle  light  before  theyr  talke  shall  fayle. 
And  part  they  say  is  true,  and  part  they  do  devise: 
Yet  boldly  do  they  chat  of  both  when  no  man  checkes  theyr 
lyes." 

Tliat  marvellously  Shaksperean  creation,  the  Nurse, 
it  turns  out,  was  conceived  and  brought  forth,  thirty- 
years  before  Shakspere's  time,  by  Arthur  Brooke. 

Now  for  that  marvellously  Shaksperean  piece  of 
psychology,  when  Juliet  drinks  the  potion.  Here  is 
Paynter's  version  :  ^  — 

"  lulietta  beinge  within  hir  Chambre  having  an  eawer 
ful  of  Water  standing  uppon  the  Table  filled  the  viole 
which  the  Frier  gave  her:  and  after  she  had  made  the 
mixture,  she  set  it  by  hir  bed  side,  and  went  to  Bed. 
And  being  layde,  new  Thoughtes  began  toassaile  her,  with 
a  concept  of  grievous  Death,  which  brought  hir  into  such 
case  as  she  could  not  tell  what  to  doe,  but  playning  inces- 
santly sayd,  'Am  not  I  the  most  unhappy  and  desperat 
creature,  that  ever  was  borne  of  Woman?  .  .  ray  distresse 
bath  brought  me  to  sutch  extremit}',  as  to  save  mine  honor 
and  conscience,  I  am  forced  to  devoure  the  drynke  whereof 
I  know  not  the  vertue  :  but  what  know  I  (sa3'd  she) 
whether  the  Operatyon  of  thys  Pouder  will  be  to  soone  or 
to  late,  or  not  correspondent  to  the  due  time  .  .  ?  What 
know  I  moreover,  if  the  Serpents  and  other  venomous  and 
crauling  Wormes,  whycb  commonly  frequent  the   Graves 

1  Dauiel,  p   130;   Hazlitt,  p.  244. 


120  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

and  pittes  of  the  Earth  wyll  hurt  me,  thynkyng  that  I  am 
deade?  But  howe  shall  I  indure  the  stynche  of  so  many 
carious  and  Bones  of  myne  auncestors  which  rest  in  the 
Grave,  yf  by  Fortune  I  do  awake  before  Rhomeo  and  Fryer 
Laurence  doe  come  to  help  me?"'* 

All  directly  from  the  French,  this  is  substantially 
repeated  by  Brooke.  At  this  point,  then,  we  may 
turn  to  his  version,  which  goes  on  a  little  more  fluently 
than  Paynter's :  — 

"  And  whilst  she  in  these  thoughts  doth  dwell  somewhat  to  long, 
The  force  of  her  ymagining  anon  dyd  waxe  so  strong, 
That  she  surmysde  she  saw,  out  of  the  hollow  vaulte, 
(A  griesly  thing  to  looke  upon)  the  carkas  of  Tybalt ; 
Right  in  the  selfe  same  sort  that  she  few  dayes  before 
Had  seene  him  in  his  blood  embrewde,  to  death  eke  wounded 

sore 
And  then  when  she  agayne  within  her  selfe  had  wayde 
That  quicke  she  should  be  buried  there,  and  by  his  side  be 

layde, 
All  comfortles,  for  she  shall  living  feere  have  none, 
But  many  a  rotten  carkas,  and  full  many  a  naked  bone  ; 
Her  dainty  tender  partes  gan  shever  all  for  dred, 
Her  golden  heares  did  stand  upright  upon  her  chillish  head. 
Then  pressed  with  the  feare  that  she  there  lived  in, 
A  sweat  as  colde  as  mountaine  yse  pearst  through  her  tender 

skin, 
That  with  the  moysture  hath  wet  every  part  of  hers  : 
And  more  besides,  she  vainely  thinkes,  whilst  vainely  thus  she 

feares, 
A  thousand  bodies  dead  have  compast  her  about. 
And  lest  they  will  dismember  her  she  greatly  stands  in  dout."' 

1  Cf.  Romeo  and  Juliet,  IV.  iii.  14  seq. 
*  Romeus  and  Juliet,  2377  seq. 


KOMEO   AXD  JULIET 


121 


Paynter's  conclusion  of  the  translation  is  perhaps 
the  more  memorable  :  — 

"  And  feelyng  that  hir  forces  diminyshed  by  lyttle  and 
lyttle,  fearing  that  through  to  great  debilyty  she  was  not 
able  to  do  hir  enterpryse,  like  a  furious  and  insensate 
Woman,  with  out  further  care,  gulped  up  the  Water  wythin 
tlie  Voyal,  then  crossing  hir  armes  upon  hir  stomacke,  she 
lost  at  that  instants  all  the  powers  of  hir  Body,  restyng 
in  a  Traunce." 


In  Juliet's  soliloquy,  Shakspere  introduces  two 
touches  not  in  these  original  versions :  her  business 
with  the  dagger,  and  her  doubt  of  the  Friar's  honesty. 
Apart  from  these,  he  merely  condenses  and  translates 
these  grotesque  old  narratives  into  permanent  form ; 
for  example  :  ^  — 

"  0,  if  I  wake,  shall  I  not  be  distraught. 
Environed  with  all  these  hideous  fears  ? 
And  madly  play  with  my  forefathers'  joints  ? 
And  pluck  the  mangled  Tybalt  from  his  shroud  ? 
And,  in  this  rage  with  some  great  kinsman's  bone, 
As  with  a  club,  dash  out  my  desperate  brains  ? 
O,  look  I  methinks  I  see  my  cousin's  ghost, 
Seeking  out  Romeo,  that  did  spit  his  body 
Upon  a  rapier's  point  :  stay,  Tybalt,  stay  ! 
Romeo,  I  come  !  this  do  I  drink  to  thee." 

With  less  citation,  it  would  have  been  hard  to  em- 
phasize the  two  facts  which  these  typical  passages 
should  make  clear :  in  the  first  place,  they  show 
how  Elizabethan  dramatists  generally  dealt  with  the 

1  IV.  iii.  49  seq. 


122  WILLI A^I   SHAKSPERE 

original  sources  of  their  plays,  —  tragic,  comic,  and 
historic  alike  ;  in  the  second  place,  they  prove  the 
remoteness  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  even  in  psychologic 
detail,  from  what  it  is  commonly  thought  to  be,  —  a 
pure  creation  of  Shakspere's  brain. 

Turning  now  from  substance  to  style,  we  may  find 
in  the  style  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  many  traits  by 
no  means  peculiar  to  Shakspere  among  Elizabethan 
writers.  A  glance  at  Romeo's  speeches  anywhere  in  the 
first  act,^  or  at  any  of  Mercutio's,^  will  reveal  plenty 
of  such  quips,  and  cranks,  and  puns  as  we  found  in 
Loveh  Labour  h  Lost.  Throughout  the  play,  too,  we 
continually  come  on  lyric  passages,  as  distinguished 
from  dramatic.  For  one  thing,  rhymes  are  frequent. 
Again,  such  a  speech  as  Mercutio's  about  Queen  Mab^ 
can  be  understood  only  when  we  compare  it  to  inter- 
polated songs  in  modern  comedies  ;  it  is  simply  a 
charming,  independent  piece  of  lyric  declamation.  So, 
when  Romeo  accosts  Juliet^  we  have  a  formal  sonnet ; 
nor  can  blank  verse  disguise  the  essentially  lyric 
quality  of  the  Epithalamium  ;^  or  of  the  Morning 
Song ;  ^  or  of  the  fugue-like  quartette  of  lament  over 
the  unconscious  Juliet.'^  The  more  one  studies  the 
play,  in  short,  the  more  curiously  archaic  the  style 
often  seems  ;  it  is  really  an  example  of  the  Euphuistic 
fantasy  prevalent  in  early  Elizabethan  literature. 

1  E.  g.  I.  i.  177  seq. 

2  His  dying  pun  is  familiar;  IIL  i.  102. 

•  I.  iv.  53  seq. 

*  I.  V.  95-108.  6  iii_  V.  1-36. 
>  III.  ii.  1-33.                             7  IV.  V.  43-64. 


ROMEO   AND  JULIET  123 

While  this  literature  is  obsolete,  however,  Borneo 
and  Juliet^  in  spite  of  its  fidelity  to  obsolete  sources, 
survives  among  the  most  popular  plays  on  the  modern 
stage.  The  reason  why  is  not  far  to  seek.  Shaks- 
pere  has  infused  the  whole  play  with  creative  imagi- 
nation. On  the  numberless  beauties  of  detail,  which 
make  us  half  forget  its  eccentricities,  we  need  not 
dwell ;  the  great  lyric  charm  of  Romeo  and  Jidiet  is 
not  its  chief  merit.  As  a  composition,  as  a  complete 
conception,  the  play  is  masterly. 

Fundamentally  the  plot  is  that  of  a  conventional 
tragedy  of  blood.  Mercutio,  Tybalt,  Paris,  Romeo,  and 
Juliet,  —  not  to  speak  of  Lady  Montague,  —  come  to 
violent  deaths ;  and  the  last  scene  takes  place  in  a 
charnel-house,  w^iich,  in  the  stage  setting  of  the  time, 
might  well  have  been  strewn  with  heaps  of  bones.  On 
horror's  head  horrors  accumulate  as  much  as  any- 
where ;  but  whereas  in  the  old  tragedies  of  blood  the 
horrors  came  from  nowhere,  in  this  case  they  are  the 
legitimate  effects  of  uncontrollable  causes.  For  ex- 
ample, the  play  opens  after  a  manner  still  conven- 
tional, with  a  scene  between  servants,  the  object  of 
which  apparently  is  only  to  occupy  the  first  few 
minutes.  But  watch  what  these  servants  do :  One 
bites  his  thumb.  A  fight  ensues.  Tybalt  enters  and 
takes  part.  Before  blood-letting  on  either  side  has 
given  his  temper  a  chance  to  cool,  the  fight  is  offi- 
cially stopped.  While  his  passion,  thus  aroused,  still 
runs  high,  he  discovers  Romeo  at  the  Capulet  feast, 
where  Romeo's  presence  seems  to  him  a  studied  in* 


124  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

suit.  Restrained  by  old  Capulet,  he  grows  more  angry 
still.  As  soon  as  he  meets  Romeo  in  public,  he  openly 
insults  him.  Mercutio  steps  in,  and  is  killed.  Romeo 
avenges  him.  So  the  tragedy  proceeds  ;  were  it  not  for 
that  first  thoughtless  thumb-biting  of  the  servants,  we 
see,  nothing  could  have  fallen  out  in  quite  this  way. 
The  thumb-biting  is  one  of  the  direct  causes  which  by 
a  growing  series  of  effects  lead  straight  to  the  final 
catastrophe.  Few  plots  anywhere  are  so  carefully 
composed. 

The  individuality  of  the  characters,  meanwhile, 
constant  and  consistent  throughout,  is  not  so  em- 
phasized as  to  distract  attention  from  the  plot. 
Rather  the  very  coherence  of  plot  on  which  we 
have  just  touched  is  secured  by  the  fact  that  the 
temperaments  of  the  separate  characters  interact 
as  they  would  in  life.  It  is  because  Tybalt  and 
Mercutio,  for  example,  are  the  kind  of  men  they 
are,  that  they  come  to  their  ends  in  a  way  which 
involves  the  fate  of  Romeo  and  Juliet.  Throughout 
the  play  one  feels  instinctively  that  here,  at  last, 
the  creative  imagination  of  Shakspere  had  begun  to 
make  his  own  fictions  as  real  as  human  beings. 

We  can  hardly  conclude,  however,  that  this  matter 
presented  itself  to  him  as  seriously  as  we  are  disposed 
to  think  of  it.  After  all,  what  a  writer  feels,  in  the 
position  we  here  suppose  to  have  been  Shakspere's,  is 
not  so  much  profound  psychologic  wisdom  as  intuitive 
knowledge  that  the  people  he  is  describing  must  be 
what  they  are,  and  must  act  or  think  as  they  do.     So  far 


ROMEO   AND  JULIET  125 

as  his  conscious  intervention  with  them  goes,  indeed, 
it  may  rather  impair  than  improve  their  vitality. 
In  Romeo  and  Juliet^  for  example,  there  is  one  state- 
ment which,  perhaps  fantastically,  might  be  taken  for 
evidence  —  as  far  as  it  goes  —  that  Shakspcre  was 
not  consciously  treating  his  characters  so  seriously 
as  posterity  has  supposed.  This  concerns  Juliet's 
age.  In  Brooke  she  is  sixteen  years  old.  Why  Shaks- 
pcre should  make  her  two  years  younger  has  given  rise 
to  much  speculation,  about  the  prematurity  of  Italian 
youth  and  the  like.  Perhaps  this  speculation  is  very 
wise.  More  probably,  however,  at  least  to  some  of  us, 
the  reason  why  Shakspere's  Juliet  is  fourteen  seems 
to  lie  in  a  single  pun,  at  the  time  of  Juliet's  first 
appearance : ^  — 

"  Lady  Capulet :  She 's  not  fourteen. 
Nurse:  1  '11  lay  fourteen  of  my  teeth,  — 

And  yet,  to  my  teen  he  it  sjjoken  I  have  but /oi<r,  — 
She  is  not  fourteen." 

Clearly  no  other  numeral  in  the  teens  could  make 
that  slight  joke  at  once  so  sonorous,  so  precise,  and  so 
funny.  Fifteen  makes  a  bad  pun  with  Jive  ;  sixteen 
sounds  short  and  sibilant ;  seven,  eight,  or  nine  teeth 
are  enough  to  make  a  decent  showing.  Right  or 
wrong,  too,  this  simple  reason  for  Juliet's  age  —  so 
very  remote  from  modern  artistic  seriousness  —  is 
exactly  the  sort  of  reason  which  would  generally 
have  affected  a  writer  of  the  period  to  which  we 
have  attributed  Romeo  and  Juliet. 

^  I.  iii.  12  seq. 


126  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

A  similar  state  of  things  pervades  the  atmosphere 
of  the  play.  In  actual  detail,  much  of  it  is  English. 
In  total  effect,  it  is  so  Italian  that  one  may  read  Romeo 
and  Juliet  with  increasing  surprise  and  delight  in 
Verona  itself.  Such  an  effect  comes  generally  by  no 
deliberate  process  of  study,  but  rather  from  a  spon- 
taneous feeling  in  the  artist  that  thus  things  ought 
to  be. 

In  spite,  then,  of  its  closeness  to  its  origins,  in  spite, 
too,  of  so  many  contemporaneous  vices  of  style,  Romeo 
and  Juliet  seems  as  original  as  it  seems  vital.  In 
Brooke  and  Paynter  there  is  no  plausibility  ;  in  Shaks- 
pere's  play  there  is  such  veracity  of  conception  that  a 
thousand  trivialities  of  style  in  no  way  impair  its 
place  in  world-literature.  Romeo  and  Juliet  is  a  great 
work  of  art ;  and  first  among  Shakspere's  works  it 
expresses  a  great  emotional  truth,  —  a  lasting,  tragic 
fact  of  human  experience. 

A  creative  artist  is  not  so  apt  to  comprehend  the 
moral  significance  of  what  he  creates  as  are  his 
critics,  particularly  after  the  lapse  of  two  or  three  cen- 
turies. It  is  more  than  likely  that  a  writer  in  Shaks- 
pere's position  may  not  actually  have  realized  even 
what  we  have  already  touclied  on.  It  is  most  unlikely 
that  he  should  have  realized  what  makes  Romeo  and 
Juliet  so  permanently  human.  The  tragedy  it  deals 
with,  the  tragedy  of  youthful  love,  is  inevitable. 
Such  love  must  pass  ;  in  real  life,  if  fate  do  not  cut  it 
short  in  all  its  purity,  it  must  lapse  into  some  matur- 
ity far  different  from  itself  —  calm  domesticity,  per- 


ROMEO   AND  JULIET  127 

haps,  or  adulterous  passion.  The  very  fate  of  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  then,  a  real  fate,  full  of  that  sense  of  the 
inevitable  which  must  pervade  true  tragedy,  proves, 
on  consideration,  not  only  broadly  typical,  but,  for  all 
its  sadness,  inherently  happy.  It  preserves  heroically 
permanent  an  emotional  purity  which  in  prolonged 
life  could  not  have  survived. 

Our  sympathy  with  this  is  all  the  warmer  because 
the  superficial  poignancy  of  the  tragedy  has  a  pathos 
wliich  anvbodv  can  feel,  without  a  bit  of  analvsis. 
Despite  all  these  merits,  though, — its  tragic  pathos 
which  appeals  to  everybody  ;  its  veracity  of  concep- 
tion, its  sentiment,  its  poetry  which  appeal  to  the 
ripest  culture,  — Romeo  and  Juliet^  as  a  play,  seems 
in  the  end  only  a  story  told  for  its  own  sake  by  an 
artist  whose  creative  imagination  was  at  last  astir. 
One  finds  in  it  no  fundamental  sense  of  mystery, 
no  cloud-piercing  vision  leading  upward  the  eyes  of 
the  elect,  no  self-revealing  impulse.  What  Shaks- 
pere  actually  did,  in  short,  reduces  itself  to  this : 
With  laboriously  mastered  art,  and  with  a  creative 
impulse  not  tracca1)lc  in  liis  earlier  work,  he  gave 
permanent  vitality  to  matters  whicli  in  other  hands 
had  shown  only  possibilities  of  life.  From  what 
seemed  the  material  for  a  tragedy  of  blood,  he 
made  a  great  tragic  poem,  —  not  philosophic  in  its 
motive,  like  the  tragedies  of  Marlowe,  but  more  last- 
ing even  than  they  in  its  human  truth.  This  he  did, 
too,  after  a  ninnner  which  we  shnll  learn  to  recog- 
nize as  his  own.     With  the  least  possible  dopai'turo 


128  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

from  his  sources,  with  the  utmost  economy  of  invention, 
and  despite  endless  affectations  of  style  which  have 
been  fatal  to  the  work  of  his  contemporaries,  he  trans- 
lated Brooke  and  Paynter  into  this  great  tragedy  which 
we  all  know.  To  himself  it  very  probably  seemed 
only  a  play  in  which  he  somehow  felt  more  hearty 
interest  than  of  old.  To  us,  however,  it  seems  rather 
a  play  throughout  which  we  feel  the  spontaneous  im- 
pulse of  his  creative  imagination.  From  beginning  to 
end,  we  can  see  now,  the  tragedy  is  permeated  with 
that  deep,  lasting  sense  of  fact  which  makes  us  so 
often  think  of  Shakspere  not  as  an  author  but  as  a 
creator. 


IV.     Richard  III. 

[Richard  TIL  was  entered  in  tlie  Stationers'  Register  on  October 
20th,  1597.  It  was  published  anonymously  in  quarto  during  the  same 
year;  the  next  year  came  a  second  quarto  with  Shakspere's  name; 
there  were  three  other  quartos  during  his  lifetime.  The  popularity 
thus  evinced  is  confirmed  by  the  fact  that,  besides  Meres's  allusion, 
the  Centurie  of  Prai/se  cites  eight  others  during  Shakspere's  life,  two  of 
which  refer  it  directly  to  Shakspere,  and  four  of  which  mention,  as 
familiar,  Richard's  last  line,  "A  horse!  Ahorse!  My  kingdom  for 
a  horse ! " 

Its  source  is  Holinshed,  and  perhaps  an  earlier  play,  now  lost. 

In  spite  of  its  long  connection  with  Shakspere,  its  authorship  has 
been  disputed  on  internal  grounds.  On  internal  evidence  it  is  com- 
monly assigned  to  1593  or  1594.] 

Whoever  wrote  Richard  III.,  the  play  so  clearly 
belongs  to  the  same  series  of  chronicle-histories  with 
Henry  VI.  that,  as  we  have  seen,  the  modern  version 


RICHARD   III  129 

lit'  it  which  still  holds  the  stage  contains  actual  scenes, 
as  well  as  speeches,  from  the  latter  play.  Were  it  not 
still  popular  on  the  stage,  indeed,  one  would  be  dis- 
posed to  group  it  rather  with  the  experimental  plays 
of  the  last  chapter  than  with  the  more  masterly  plays 
of  this.  Its  vitality,  however,  so  far  as  it  goes,  is  not 
accidental.  While,  as  a  whole,  the  play  follows  the 
conventions  of  the  old  chronicle-history  so  closely 
that,  in  its  original  form,  it  cannot  hold  the  attention 
of  a  modern  audience,  it  contains,  in  its  central  figure, 
a  character  as  vitally  human,  if  not  as  complex,  as 
any  that  Shakspcre  created. 

On  the  archaism  of  so  much  of  the  play  is  based 
part  of  the  doubt  as  to  its  authorship.  The  poet  who 
could  make  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  it  is  felt, 
or  Romeo  and  Juliet,  could  not  have  perpetrated  the 
absurdities  which  half  impair  the  dramatic  power  of 
the  scene  where  Gloster  stops  a  royal  funeral  in  the 
street,  to  make  perfidious  love  to  the  widowed  chief 
mourner ;  ^  nor  could  he  have  made  three  royal 
widows  sit  on  the  ground,  lamenting  through  a 
hundred  lines  like  Irish  keeners.^  Again,  some 
critics  feel,  the  simplicity  of  villainy  embodied  in 
the  character  of  Richard  is  too  inhuman,  after  all, 
for  such  a  master  of  psychology  as  Shakspere  had 
already  proved  himself.  More  likely,  to  such  a  state 
of  mind  as  theirs,  this  whole  play  is  really  Marlowe's, 
or  perhaps  collaborative. 

The  force  of  these  criticisms  is  evident.     To  avoid 

1  I.  ii.  2  IV.  iv. 


130  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

them  —  to  give  Richard  III.  a  definite  place  in  our 
notion  of  Shakspere's  development  —  we  must  remind 
ourselves  in  the  first  place  of  the  state  of  dramatic 
literature  in  1693,  and  in  the  second  place  of  what  we 
have  assumed  Shakspere  to  have  done  since  that  year. 
As  we  saw  when  we  studied  Henry  VI.,  chronicle- 
history,  the  most  typically  Elizabethan  kind  of  drama, 
remained  archaic  in  form  and  in  purpose  at  a  time 
when  at  least  in  purpose  tragedy  had  become  modernly 
comprehensible,  and  comedy  had  become  so  in  both 
purpose  and  form.  To  a  modern  mind,  the  obsolete, 
rather  operatic  than  dramatic,  methods  which  have 
made  Shakspere's  Richard  III.  give  place  on  the  stage 
to  Colley  Gibber's  vulgar  version,  are  plain  marks  of 
weakness.  To  one  familiar  with  the  older  chronicle- 
histories,  they  are  simply  a  continuation,  with  added 
artistic  purpose,  of  the  conventions  which  the  theatre 
of  their  time  accepted. 

To  analyze  in  detail  the  art  of  Richard  III.  would 
for  our  purposes  involve  too  long  a  delay.  The  result 
of  it  any  one  can  feel.  The  character  of  Richard,  for 
all  the  simplicity  of  his  villainy,  is  as  human  as  any 
in  fiction  ;  again  and  again,  as  you  read  his  lines, 
you  find  yourself  accepting  them  as  if  they  were 
actual  human  utterances.  The  world  in  which  this 
human  being  moves,  on  the  other  hand,  is  almost  as 
unreal,  in  its  archaic  conventionality,  as  that  of  the 
Moralities  and  the  Interludes  ;  and  so  are  many  of 
his  own  speeches.!     It   is  as   if   a  modern,  realistic 

»  E.g.  I.  i.  30,  14.5-154. 


RICHARD    III  131 

portrait  were  painted  on  such  a  golden  background 
as  one  finds  among  thirteenth-century  Italians.  De- 
spite this  incongruity,  however,  so  palpable  on  the 
modern  stage  as  to  be  dramatically  impossible,  a  mere 
reader  of  the  i)lay  is  hardly  aware  that  anything  is 
wrong.  Like  an  Elizabethan  theatre-goer,  he  accepts 
the  half-lyric  old  conventions,  and  finds  his  attention 
centred  on  the  vivid  vitality  of  the  central  figure. 
Here  he  finds  completed  the  tendency  which,  in 
the  Third  Part  of  Henry  VI.,  he  had  already  per- 
ceived.i  In  Gloster  is  finally  concentrated  all  the  evil, 
all  the  disorder  which  had  been  desolating  England 
from  the  moment  wdicn  discord  rose  over  the  coffin 
of  Henry  V.  In  Gloster,  when  all  this  evil  is  finally 
ripe,  it  meets  its  just  end  with  the  victory  of  the  first 
Tudor  sovereign,  whose  granddaughter  still  reigned 
when  Richard  III.  was  written.  Readers,  even 
to-day,  accept  Richard  III.  as  a  great  tragic  poem ; 
actors  as  a  superb  one-part  play. 

What  seemed  its  lack  of  art,  then,  proves  rather 
to  have  been  its  lack  of  complete  emergence  from 
archaic  convention.  Even  this,  however,  does  not 
explain  its  place  in  the  work  of  Shakspere.  Richard 
III,,  as  a  character,  we  have  seen,  certainly  has  such 
vitality  as  can  come  only  from  creative  imagination 
in  its  maker ;  but,  compared  with  the  plays  we  have 
assigned  to  about  the  same  period,  Richard  III.  — 
for  all  its  mere  theatrical  effectiveness  —  is  extremely 
crude. 

»  Seep.  81. 


132  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

In  this  very  fact,  sometimes  used  as  an  argument 
against  its  genuineness,  or  at  least  against  our  con- 
jectural chronology,  we  may  find  a  strong  argu- 
ment in  our  favor.  The  Midsummer  Night's  Bream 
carried  English  comedy  to  a  point  as  yet  unap- 
proached ;  so,  at  least  in  the  matter  of  human  plausi- 
bility, Romeo  and  Juliet  carried  English  tragedy  ;  and 
we  saw  reason  for  believing  that  these  two  plays 
belong  to  the  same  period.  Whatever  any  writer's 
genius,  such  effort  as  is  involved  in  either  of  these 
plays  is  exhausting,  —  still  more  exhausting  is  such 
effort  as  is  involved  in  both.  Given  this  fact,  and 
given  the  comparative  lack  of  development  in  chron- 
icle-history, we  could  not  rationally  expect  a  chron- 
icle-history from  the  same  hand  to  show  anything 
like  a  ripeness  parallel  to  that  of  the  ripening  comedy 
and  tragedy.  At  most,  we  could  expect  it  to  show 
growing  signs  of  imaginative  vitality ;  and  these  are 
just  what  we  find  in  Richard  III. 

The  state  of  things  thus  suggested  —  that  when 
Shakespere  was  doing  one  kind  of  work  with  excep- 
tional vigor  his  work  of  other  kinds  shows  far  less 
departure  from  conventions  —  we  shall  find  through- 
out his  career.  For  our  purposes,  it  is  the  chief  thing 
to  note  concerning  Richard  III. 


1 


RICHARD  n  133 


V.    Richard  II. 

[Richard  II.  was  entered  in  the  Stationers'  Register  on  August 
29th,  1597.  It  was  published  anonymously  during  tiie  same  year; 
and  again  the  next  year,  witli  Shakspere's  name.  In  these  quartos 
the  deposition  scene  —  IV.  i.  153-318  —  is  omitted.  It  appears  first 
in  a  (juarto  of  1608;  and  remains  in  the  fourth  quarto,  of  1615.  Ap- 
parently it  belongs  to  the  original  play,  and  was  suppressed  as  politi- 
cally objectionable. .  Richard  II.  was  mentioned  by  Meres.  There 
seems  to  have  been  another  play  on  this  subject  which  was  perhaps 
the  one  played  on  the  eve  of  Essex's  rebellion  in  1600-1. 

The  source  of  Richard  II.  is  Holinshed,  which  is  closely  followed. 

On  internal  evidence,  the  i)lay  is  commonly  assigned  to  about  the 
same  period  as  Richard  III.    Probably  it  is  the  later  of  the  two.J 

Like  Richard  III.,  Richard  11.  must  for  our  pur- 
poses be  regarded  as  a  chronicle-history  written  at  a 
moment  when  Shakspere's  best  energies  were  concen- 
trated on  comedy  and  tragedy.  As  we  should  expect, 
its  method  is  essentially  conventional,  —  nothing  is 
done  or  said  exactly  as  it  would  have  been  in  real 
life.  The  story,  in  short,  is  translated  from  Holin- 
shed into  a  dramatic  form  plainly  influenced  by 
Marlowe's,  whose  Edward  II.  this  play  closely  resem- 
bles. For  all  this,  Richard  II.  dififers  from  Shaks- 
pere's earlier  chronicle-histories  in  two  respects : 
it  has  distinct  unity  of  purpose,  —  its  scenes  and 
incidents  are  carefully  selected,  and  organically  com- 
posed;  and  it  is  so  complete  in  finish  that  its  nu- 
merous beauties  of  detail  are  not  salient.  In  other 
words,  while  Shakspere's  earlier  chronicle-histories 
may  be  regarded  as  experiments,  Richard  11.^  without 


134  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

palpable  originality,  uses  a  mastered  archaic  method 
for  the  expression  of  a  definite  artistic  purpose. 

Of  course,  Shakspere  was  not  inventing.  Unless  we 
constantly  discard  the  notion  of  invention,  we  cannot 
understand  chronicle-history.  Actual  historical  facts, 
however,  impress  historians  who  are  also  artists  in 
specifically  emotional  ways ;  and  such  emotions  even 
modern  writers  of  history,  if  they  be  artists,  try  to 
express.  This  is  what  Shakspere  has  done  in  Richard 
II.  ;  and  if  Richard  III.  remind  one  of  some  modern 
figure  painted  on  a  thirteenth-century  background, 
Richard  II.,  consistent  throughout,  reminds  one 
more  vividly  still  of  the  quaintly  life-like  portrait  of 
Richard  himself  enthroned  in  golden  glory,  still  to 
be  seen  in  the  choir  of  Westminster  Abbey. 

In  many  places,  Shakspere  follows  Holinshed's 
actual  words  with  a  closeness  which  makes  the  superb 
sound  of  Shakspere's  language  amazing ;  this  is  not- 
able, for  example,  in  the  heralds'  speeches,  at  the  lists 
at  Coventry.!  When  Shakspere  invents  his  speeches, 
too,  as  in  the  scene  where  for  eleven  consecutive 
lines  the  dying  Gaunt  puns  on  his  own  name,^  or  in 
the  scene  where  Richard,  just  deposed,  goes  through 
sixteen  lines  of  sentimental  euphuism  with  a  mirror,^ 
Shakspere's  method  is  as  archaically  conventional  as 
ever.  This  conventionality,  however,  is  no  more  sali- 
ent than  the  actual  beauties  which  surround  it ;  such 
for  example,  as  Gaunt's  noble  speech  about  England,* 

1  I.  iii.  104-116.  2  II.  i.  73-83. 

»  IV.  i.  276-291.  <  II.  i.  40-66. 


RICHARD  II  135 

or  as  Carlisle's  wonderful  narrative  of  the  death  of 
Norfolk :  i  — 

"  Many  a  time  hath  baiii.sh'd  Norfolk  fought 
For  Jesu  Christ  in  glorious  Christian  field, 
Streaming  the  ensign  of  the  Christian  cross 
Against  black  pagans,  Turks,  and  Saracens  ; 
And  toil'd  with  works  of  war,  retired  himself 
To  Italy  ;  and  there  at  Venice  gave 
His  body  to  that  pleasant  country's  earth, 
And  his  pure  soul  unto  hia  captain  Christ, 
Under  whose  colours  he  had  fought  so  long." 

Conventionalities  and  beauties  alike,  each  seems  ex- 
actly in  place.  What  is  more,  while  none  even  of 
the  beauties  are  inevitably  human  utterances,  each 
generally  helps  to  define  the  character  who  utters 
it  ;  for  while  the  conventionality  of  phrase  in 
Richard  II.  prevents  the  characters  from  seeming 
exactly  human,  they  have  distinct  individuality.  Car- 
lisle, brave,  loyal,  simple,  is  an  ideal  English  gen- 
tleman ;  York,  always  honest,  is  weak  and  dull ; 
Bolingbroke,  supple,  intriguing,  yet  somehow  royal, 
reminds  one  curiously  of  Louis  Napoleon;  Richard 
himself,  in  his  feeble,  delicate  complexity,  is  the  most 
individual  of  all.  Amiable,  almost  fascinating,  he  is 
fundamentally  unable  to  keep  fact  in  view;  with 
graceful  sentimentality  he  is  always  wandering  from 
plain  matters  of  fact  to  fantastic  dreams  nnd  phrases. 
Euphuism,  so  inapt  when  we  stop  to  criticise  it  in 
Gaunt  or  Bolingbroke,  becomes  in  Richard  strongly 

»  IV.  i.  92-100. 


136  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

characteristic.  Winning  in  the  irresponsibility  ot 
private  life,  such  a  character  when  clothed  with  the 
dignity  of  royalty  becomes  a  public  danger.  The 
fatal  incompatibility  of  the  character  and  the  duties 
of  Richard  II.  involves  the  tragedy  which  pervades 
this  play. 

For  besides  being  a  chronicle-history,  and  a  master- 
piece of  its  archaic  kind,  Richard  II.  is  a  really  tragic 
prologue  to  the  series  of  chronicle-histories  which  it 
opens.  Thus  we  generally  think  of  it,  neglecting  its 
position  in  the  literature  of  its  time.  To  define  this, 
we  should  compare  it  with  its  obvious  model,  the 
Edward  II.  of  Marlowe.  In  this  tragedy  —  so  pro- 
foundly tragic  that  one  inclines  to  forget  its  real  char- 
acter as  chronicle-history  —  there  are  passages  more 
human  than  anything  in  Shakspere's  play.  Shaks- 
pere,  for  instance,  has  no  lines  which  touch  one  like 
Edward's  speech  amid  the  squalid  horrors  of  his 
dungeon : — 

"  Tell  Isabel  the  queen,  I  look'd  not  thus, 
When  for  her  sake  I  ran  at  tilt  in  France, 
And  there  unhors'd  the  Duke  of  Cleremont." 

The  entire  death-scene  of  Edward  is  finer  than  that 
of  Richard.  As  a  whole,  however,  Edward  11.^  while 
at  times  more  vitally  imaginative  than  Richard  11.^ 
shows  far  less  mastery  of  art.  If  more  imagi- 
native, it  is  much  less  evenly  sustained.  The  trait  of 
Richard  II.  in  the  development  of  Shakspere  begins 
to  define  itself.     At  a  moment  when  he  was  making 


KING  JOHN  137 

permanent  tragedies  and  comedies,  which  occupied 
his  best  energy,  he  was  also  making  the  old  conven- 
tions of  chronicle-history  serve  to  express,  in  a  thor- 
oughly mastered  archaic  form,  his  growing  sense  of 
fact. 


VI.    King  John. 

[King  John  is  the  only  one  of  Shakspere's  plays  never  entered  in 
the  Stationers'  Register.  Apart  from  its  mention  by  Meres,  there  is 
no  definite  trace  of  it  until  its  publication  in  the  folio  of  1623. 

Unlike  Shakspere's  other  chronicle-histories,  it  is  founded,  not  on 
the  chronicles  themselves,  but  on  an  earlier  play.  The  Troublesome 
Raigne  of  John  King  of  England,  etc.,  published  in  1591.  This  was 
reprinted  in  1611,  with  the  name  "  W.  Sh."  on  the  titlepage.  In  all 
probability,  however,  the  attributing  of  this  earlier  play  to  Shakspere 
is  merely  the  trick  of  a  dishonest  publisher. 

From  internal  evidence  King  John  has  been  conjecturally  assigned 
to  1595  or  1596.  Critics  generally  agree  in  placing  it  somewhere 
between  Richard  II.  and  Henry  IV.] 

Less  careful,  loss  constantly  sustained  than  Richard 
II.,  King  John  often  impresses  one  as  queerer,  more 
archaic,  more  puzzling  than  any  other  of  Shakspere's 
chronicle-histories.  This  impression,  of  course,  may 
be  chiefly  due  to  the  accident  that  in  most  editions 
of  the  series  it  is  printed  first,  and  so  that  one  is 
apt  to  read  it  with  no  preparation  for  its  conven- 
tions. As  we  shall  see,  however,  there  are  reasons 
enough  in  the  play  as  it  stands  to  make  it  seem  at 
first  sight  more  strange  than  what  we  have  already 
considered,  and  yet,  on  inspection,  to  prove  It  a  dis- 


138  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

tinct  step  forward  in  the  development  of  chronicle- 
history. 

One  cause  for  its  oddity  of  effect  lies  in  its  origin. 
Instead  of  translating  directly  from  the  chronicles, 
Shakspere  clearly  did  not  trouble  himself  about  them 
at  all ;  but  only  adapted  a  clumsy  old  play  to  the  im- 
proving conditions  of  the  stage.  At  the  time,  the 
subject  of  this  play  was  accidentally  popular.  Though 
tradition  generally  confirms  history  in  declaring  John 
to  have  been  the  worst  king  England  ever  had,  tradi- 
tion and  history  equally  agree  in  preserving  a  sus- 
picion that  he  came  to  his  end  by  poison,  adminis- 
tered by  an  ecclesiastic  who  had  been  enraged  beyond 
measure  by  John's  attacks  on  the  vested  property  of 
the  Church.  When  England  broke  away  from  the 
church  of  Rome,  then,  John,  by  an  obvious  distor- 
tion of  tradition,  became  something  like  a  Protestant 
hero.  In  the  early  editions  of  Foxe's  Book  of  Martyrs 
there  is  a  full  page  of  illustrations,  showing  how  the 
wicked  monk,  duly  absolved  to  begin  with,  took  the 
poison  from  a  toad,  put  it  in  the  king's  wine-cup, 
tasted  the  liquor  to  disarm  suspicion,  died  at  the 
same  time  with  the  king,  and  had  masses  regularly 
said  for  his  traitorous,  murderous  soul.  This  view  of 
things  was  presented,  among  others,  in  the  Trouble- 
some Raigne. 

The  old  play,  thus  for  the  moment  popular,  was  in 
two  parts.  In  adapting  it,  Shakspere  reduced  it  to 
the  limits  of  a  single  performance.  However  he 
may  have  improved  it  in  many  ways,  he  managed  in 


KING   JOHN  139 

one  way  to  make  it  decidedly  less  intelli<5ible  than 
before.  In  the  Troublesome  Raiyne  there  are  a  num- 
ber of  ribald  scenes  where  the  Bastard  sacks  religious 
houses,  and  incidentally  discovers  there  a  state  of 
morals  agreeable  at  once  to  the  principles  of  Eliza- 
bethan Protestants  and  to  the  taste  of  Elizabethan 
audiences.  This  proceeding  so  excites  the  clergy 
that  they  compass  the  king's  death.  In  Shakspere's 
play,  this  whole  matter  is  compressed  into  two  short 
passages  :  — 

1.*         "iiT.  John.   Cousin,  away  for  England!  haste  before  : 

And,  ere  our  coming,  see  thou  shake  the  bags 

Of  hoarding  abbots  ;  imprisoned  angels 

Set  at  liberty  :  the  fat  ribs  of  peace 

Must  by  the  hungry  now  be  fed  upon  : 

Use  our  commission  in  his  utmost  force. 
Bast.    Bell,  book,  and  candle  shall  not  drive  me  back, 

When  gold  and  silver  becks  me  to  come  on." 
2.'       ^^  Bast.    How  I  have  sped  among  the  clergymen, 

The  sums  I  have  collected  shall  express." 

The  poisoning  of  the  king,  then,  comes  without  very 
obvious  cause.  In  this  respect,  the  old  play  is  the 
better. 

Nor  is  this  the  only  instance  in  which  Shakspere  did 
not  improve  things.  Shakspere's  Constance,  in  gen- 
eral, however  her  rhetoric  may  be  admired,  certainly 
rants ;  like  so  many  passages  in  the  earlier  chronicle- 
histories,  her  long  speeches  belong  rather  to  grand 
opera  than  to  tragedy  proper.     The  Constance  of  the 

1  III.  iii.  6-13.  2  IV.  ii.  141-142. 


140  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

TrouUesome  Baigne,  on  the  other  hand,  though  less 
eloquent,  is  more  human.  Compare,  for  example,  the 
last  appearance  of  Constance  in  the  two  plays :  it  is 
when  her  heart  has  been  broken  by  the  capture  of 
Arthur.  Here  is  her  last  speech  in  the  Troublesome 
Raigne :  — 

"  Lewes.   Have  patience,  Madame,  this  is  chaunce  of  warre  ; 
He  may  be  ransomde,  we  revenge  his  wrong. 

Constance.    Be  it  ner  so  soone,  I  shall  not  live  so  long." 

In  King  John  this  pathetic  utterance  is  expanded 
into  five  speeches,  which  comprise  above  fifty  hnes  of 
tremendous  declamation,  beginning :  i  — 

*'  No,  no,  I  will  not,  having  breath  to  cry: 
O,  that  my  tongue  were  in  th«  thunder's  mouth  I 
Then  with  a  passion  would  I  shake  the  world ; 
And  rouse  from  sleep  that  fell  anatomy 
Which  cannot  hear  a  lady's  feeble  voice,"  etc. 

Whatever  Shakspere's  Constance  may  be  at  heart, 
she  is  not  always  so  human  in  expression  as  the 
Constance  of  the   Troublesome  Raigne. 

In  general,  however,  Shakspere's  play  is  by  far 
the  better.  To  find  such  instances  as  we  have 
just  glanced  at,  one  must  seek.  Taking  the  two 
plays  as  a  spectator  or  a  hasty  reader  would  take 
tlicm,  they  differ  in  effect  much  as  Romeo  and 
Juliet  differs  from  Titus  Andronicus.  The  old  play 
has  so  little  vitality  of  imagination  that  it  is  hardly 
ever  plausible;   King  John,  on   the   other   hand,   is 

1  III.  iv.  37  seq. 


KING  JOHN  141 

full  of  touches  which,  when  we  once  accept  the 
old  conventions,  waken  characters  and  scenes  alike 
into  something  far  nearer  real  life  than  we  have 
yet  found  in  chronicle-history.  Character  after  char- 
acter emerges  into  consistent  individuality.  Best 
of  all,  of  course,  is  the  Bastard,  who  from  a  rather 
lifeless  comic  personage  becomes  one  of  Shakspere's 
own  living  men.  Arthur,  whose  situation  and  fate 
recall  those  of  the  young  princes  in  Richard  III., 
is  at  once  so  human  and  so  pathetic  that  many  mod- 
ern critics  are  set  to  wondering  whether  the  ten- 
der sense  of  boyish  charm  and  parental  bereavement 
hereby  revealed  may  not  have  been  awakened  by 
the  illness  and  death  in  1596  of  Shakspere's  only  son. 
Elinor  is  thoroughly  alive,  too;^  so  is  the  intriguing 
Cardinal  Pandulph  ;2  so  is  Hubert,  whose  scenes 
with  the  King  and  with  Arthur  remain  dramatically 
effective;^  so  is  King  John  himself;  and  so  often,  in 
spite  of  her  rant,  is  Constance.  In  no  earlier  chronicle- 
history,  for  example,  is  there  anything  like  so  human 
a  touch  as  in  the  scene  where  Elinor  tries  to  entice 
Arthur  from  Constance  :  *  — 

"  Eli.  Come  to  thy  grandam,  child. 

Goffist.   Do,  child,  go  to  it  grandain,  child  ; 
Give  grandam  kingdom,  and  it  grandam  will 
Give  it  a  plum,  a  cherry,  and  a  fig  ; 
There  'a  a  good  grandam." 

In  the  Troublesome  Raigne  there  is  no  hint  of  these 
speeches.     They  are  all  Shakspere's. 

1  See  I.  i.  •^  See  III.  iv.  112  seq. 

»  m.  iii.  19  seq. ;  IV.  i.  •»  II.  i.  139  seq. 


142  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

As  concrete  an  example  as  any  of  what  Shakspere 
has  done  in  King  John  may  he  found  in  the  very  opea- 
ing  line.  The  Troublesome  Raigne  opens  with  a  for- 
mal speech  by  Elinor  :  — 

"  Barons  of  England,  and  my  noble  Lords  ; 
Though  God  and  fortune  have  bereft  from  us 
Victorious  Richard  scourge  of  infidels,"  etc. 

In  general  manner,  this  is  very  much  like  the  opening 
of  Richard  II. :  — 

"  Old  John  of  Gaunt,  time-honour'd  Lancaster,"  etc. 

Shakspere's  King  John,  on  the  other  hand,  opens 
with  an  improved  version  of  the  forty-first  line  of  the 
Troublesome  Raigne,  the  line  with  which  the  action 
begins : — 

"  Now  say,  Chatillon,  what  would  France  with  us  1 " 

By  the  eighth  line,  the  passionate  temperaments  of 
John  and  of  Elinor  have  been  revealed  by  two  charac- 
teristic outbursts  1  for  which  the  Troublesome  Raigne 
affords  no  suggestion.  The  example  is  sufficient : 
what  has  happened  in  King  John  is  what  happened 
in  Romeo  and  Juliet.  Creative  imagination,  to  all 
appearances  spontaneous,  has  made  real,  living  peo- 
ple out  of  what  had  previously  been  stage  types. 

In  this  very  fact  lies  the  reason  why  King  John 
generally  impresses  one  as  more  archaic,  or  at  least 
as  more  queer,  than  Richard  II.  Such  a  phrase  as 
Richard's 

"  Old  John  of  Gaunt,  time-honour'd  Lancaster," 
1  I.  5.  5,  6, 


KING  JOHN  143 

could  never  have  been  uttered  by  any  real  man ; 
such  a  phrase  as  John's 

"  Now  say,  Chatillon,  what  would  France  with  us  ? " 

might  be  uttered  by  anybody  still.  In  Richard  11., 
then,  the  consistent  conventionality  of  everything 
makes  us  accept  the  whole  play  if  we  accept  any 
part  of  it.  In  King  John  the  continual  confusion  of 
real,  human  vitality  with  the  old  quasi-operatic  con- 
ventions combines  with  the  general  carelessness  of 
construction  to  make  each  kind  of  thing  seem  more 
out  of  place  than  it  would  seem  by  itself.  Like  any 
other  transitional  incongruity.  King  John  is  often 
harder  to  accept  than  the  consistent  conventions 
from  which  it  departs.  Its  very  excellences  empha- 
size its  faults  and  its  oddities. 

In  King  John,  then,  we  find  Shakspere's  creative 
energy  awake,  much  as  we  found  it  in  Romeo  and 
Juliet ;  and  somewhat  as  we  found  it  in  the  Midsum- 
mer Night'' s  Dream,  in  Richard  111.,  and  in  Richard  IX. 
From  the  fact  that  King  John,  while  in  some  respects 
as  vital  as  any  of  these,  is  less  careful,  we  may  infer 
that  this  creative  energy  was  growing  more  spontane- 
ously strong.  Clearly,  though,  it  has  not  here  pro- 
duced a  work  which  for  ripeness  of  development  can 
compare  with  the  comedy  or  the  tragedy  already 
before  us.  To  understand  this  slowness  in  the  devel- 
opment of  chronicle-history,  we  may  conveniently 
turn  to  the  next  play  in  our  study.  If  our  chro- 
nology be  right,  King  John  belongs  to  the  same  period 
as  the  Merchant  of  Venice. 


144  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 


VII.    The  Merchant  of  Venice. 

[The  Merchant  of  Venice  was  entered  in  the  Stationers'  Register  in 
July,  1598.  It  was  twice  published  in  quarto  during  1600.  It  was 
mentioned  by  Meres,  and  one  passage  was  perhaps  paraphrased  in  a 
play  called  the  Wily  Beguiled,  written  in  1596  or  1597. 

The  actual  sources  of  the  Merchant  of  Venice  remain  doubtful.  The 
weight  of  opinion  seems  to  hold  that  Shakspere  rewrote  an  older  play, 
now  lost,  which  was  probably  founded  ou  the  Pecorone  of  Ser  Giovanni 
Fiorentino.  In  any  event,  the  stories  here  combined  are  very  old,  and 
might  have  come  to  Shakspere's  attention  in  various  ways. 

While  the  date  of  the  play  cannot  be  fixed  with  certainty,  we  may 
be  fairly  sure  that  it  was  written  later  than  the  plays  we  have  consid- 
ered hitherto,  and  certainly  before  1598.  The  weight  of  opinion  seems 
to  favor  1596] 

If  the  Merchant  of  Venice  be  nearly  contemporary 
with  King  Johi^  we  can  readily  see  why  the  advance 
made  in  the  latter  play  is  less  marked  than  we  might 
have  expected ;  for  like  the  comedy  and  the  tragedy 
which  we  guessed  to  have  absorbed  the  energy  which 
might  have  developed  chronicle-history  into  some- 
thing riper  than  Richard  HI.  or  Richard  II. ^  the 
Merchant  of  Venice  must  have  demanded,  in  the  writ- 
ing, the  better  part  of  its  maker's  attention.  The 
reason  why  King  John  remains  archaic,  then,  we  may 
guess  to  be  that  at  the  time  of  its  writing  Shak- 
spere's chief  energies  were  directed  elsewhere. 

For,  whatever  its  origin,  the  Merchant  of  Venice  is 
a  permanently  good  play,  still  effective  on  the  stage. 
A  modern  audience  accepts  it  and  enjoys  it  as  heartily 
as  ever.    When  we  stop  to  consider  the  plot,  to  be  sure, 


THE  MERCHANT  OF   VENICE  145 

we  discover  a  state  of  things  which  to  say  the  least  is 
surprising.  We  have  been  asked  to  believe  that  in 
ducal  Venice,  where  business  was  doing  on  the  Rialto, 
a  respectable  merchant,  whom  Tintoretto  might  have 
painted,  made  a  serious  contract  with  a  Jewish  neigh- 
bor, by  the  terms  of  which  the  Jew  might  legally 
murder  him  ;  and  that  meanwhile  a  s])endthrift  Vene- 
tian gentleman  borrowed  from  this  same  merchant  a 
considerable  sum  in  good  Venetian  coin,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  pressing  liis  suit  to  an  heiress,  whose  hand 
was  to  be  given,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  whoever 
should  select  among  three  locked  boxes  the  one  which 
contained  her  portrait.  Thus  stated,  the  plot  of  the 
Merchant  of  Venice  appears  as  childishly  absurd  as 
any  in  all  nursery  tradition.  Thus  stated,  however,  — 
though  the  statement  is  literally  true,  —  it  startles  one 
a  bit ;  for,  whether  we  see  or  read  the  play,  we  have 
not  only  been  asked  to  accept  this  nonsense ;  we  have 
unhesitatingly  accepted  it.  Shakspere's  art  has  made 
it  plausible. 

The  technical  construction  of  the  plot  has  of  late  been 
greatly  admired.  Without  more  accurate  knowledge 
of  the  sources,  to  be  sure,  we  cannot  assert  just  what 
Shakspere  did,  and  what  was  done  by  other  hands. 
It  seems  probable,  however,  that  to  Shakspere's  in- 
stinctive tact  we  owe  the  variation  from  the  original 
plot,  to  which,  so  far  as  plot  goes,  the  plausibility  of 
tlie  Merchant  of  Venice  is  chiefly  due.  In  the  older 
story,  the  lady  of  Belmont  is  a  piratical  and  widowed 
siren,  who  persuades  passing  merchants  to  stake  their 

10     _ 


146  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

vessels  against  her  hand  that  they  will  possess  her 
person,  and  then  drugs  them  at  supper.  The  substi- 
tution for  this  crude  incident  of  the  delicately  fan- 
tastic story  of  the  caskets  is  distinctly  characteristic 
of  Shakspere,  among  Elizabethan  dramatists.  Most 
of  his  contemporaries  would  greatly  have  relished 
the  original  situation.  Shakspere,  on  the  other  hand, 
while  never  prudish  and  always  willing  to  make  licen- 
tious jokes,  seems  to  have  been  remarkably  free  from 
a  taste  for  unmixed  obscenity.  Compared  with  other 
men  of  his  time,  he  shows  decided  purity  of  mind. 
Whether  he  actually  made  it  or  not,  then,  the  change 
from  the  old  plot  is  such  as  he  would  have  been  apt 
to  make. 

It  is  this  change,  more  than  anything  else,  which 
makes  the  Merchant  of  Venice  plausible.  As  an  art- 
ist, of  course,  Shakspere's  task  was  to  distract  atten- 
tion from  the  absurdity  of  his  plot.  This,  we  have 
seen,  he  accomplished.  He  did  so  largely  by  con- 
stantly keeping  before  his  audience  two  separate 
though  closely  intermingled  atmospheres  :  first,  that 
of  a  romantic  Venice  such  as  Paul  Veronese  might 
have  painted  ;  secondly,  that  of  the  still  more  ro- 
mantic, actually  Utopian,  Belmont,  such  as  was  in- 
volved in  the  story  of  the  caskets.  His  composition 
here  somewhat  resembles  that  of  the  Midsummer 
NigMs  Bream.  He  adapts  and  develops  for  his 
purposes  the  conventional  devices  of  an  induction. 
Belmont  is  as  unreal,  though  not  so  fantastic,  as  the 
fairy  wood  of  Athens ;  yet  the  unreality  of  Belmont  is 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE  147 

necessary  to  make  plausible  the  romantic  extravagan- 
ces of  Venice.  Sliakspere  begins,  then,  by  a  scene  in 
^''enice  where  everything  might  conceivably  be  true. 
Though  a  suggestion  of  Portia  occurs  in  the  first  scene, 
there  is  no  allusion  to  the  caskets.  Then  the  scene 
shifts  to  Belmont,  where  Portia  and  Nerissa  talk  long 
enough  to  be  readily  accepted  by  any  audience  before 
the  caskets  are  mentioned  at  all.  With  that  mention 
begins  the  Utopian  atmosphere.  When  we  have  ac- 
cepted that,  the  bond  of  the  pound  of  flesh  seems  far 
more  in  the  order  of  things  than  if  we  had  come  to  it 
straight  from  real  life ;  yet  even  then  it  is  reserved 
until  the  one  hundred  and  fiftieth  line  of  the  following 
scene.  From  that  time  on,  romantic  Venice  and 
Utopian  Belmont  are  more  and  more  intermingled, 
until  in  the  last  two  acts  one  hardly  knows  which  is 
which.  The  last  act  —  a  lyric  epilogue  which  removes 
us  from  the  excessive  improbability  of  the  trial  scene 
—  leaves  us  in  a  realm  of  Utopian  fancy.  Different  as 
the  effect  of  this  romantic  play  is  from  that  of  the 
fairy  comedy,  the  device  by  which  it  is  secured  is 
clearly  the  old  induction-like  device  of  leading  us 
gradually  from  credible  things  to  incredible. 

Nor  is  this  the  only  instance  of  Shakspeare's  charac- 
teristic economy  of  invention.  In  the  Two  Gentlemen 
of  Verona  ^  we  remember  among  other  effective  things 
the  catalogue  of  lovers  discussed  between  mistress 
and  maid ;  the  disguise  of  the  heroine  as  a  man,  with 
consequent  confusion  of  identity ;  and  the  robust  low 

'  See  p.  94. 


148  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

comedy  of  Launce  and  Speed.     In  the  Merchant  of 
Venice  all  these  are  reproduced  and  developed.     The 
change  in  the  catalogue  of  lovers  is  a  distinct  improve- 
ment.    In  the  first  instance  the  mistress  proposed  the 
names  and  the  maid  commented  on  them,  which  was 
amusing  but  rude ;  here  the  maid  proposes  the  names 
and  the  mistress  comments,  which  is  both  amusing 
and  —  at   least  according  to  Elizabethan   notions  — 
consistent  with  good  manners.^    Launce  and  Speed 
are  reproduced  in  Launcelot  Gibbo  and  his  father,  —  a 
much  better  contrasted  or  at  least  more  varied  pair. 
The  disguised  heroine,  on  the  other  hand,  is  not  only 
repeated  but  trebled.     There  are  but  three  women  in 
the  Merchant  of  Venice;  and  all  three  assume  male 
costume  —  as  complete  a  concession  to  the  taste  of 
audiences  as  you  shall  find  in  all  dramatic  literature. 
What  really  makes  the  Merchant  of  Venice  so  per- 
manently effective,  however,  is  not  so  much  these  well- 
tried  devices,  which  after  all  prove  chiefly  that  the 
play  is  constructed  with  careful  theatrical  intelligence. 
It  is  rather  that  along  with  this  care  appears  the  trait 
which  we  have  clearly  seen  growing  in  Romeo  and 
Juliet^  in  Richard  III.,  and  in  King  John.     From  be- 
ginning to  end,  the  characters  of   the  Merchant   of 
Venice   are  so  individual   and    so   human  that  one's 
attention  centres  wholly  on  them.     As  readers  or  as 
spectators  we  become  convinced  that  these  people  are 
real ;  in  consequence  we  accept  everything  else  as  a 
matter  of  course.     Appreciating  who  and  what  the 

*  Cf.  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  I.  ii.  with  Merchant  of  Venice,  I.  ii 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE  149 

characters  are,  we  never  stop  to  remark  what  absurd 
things  they  do. 

Of  course,  this  profoundly  liuman  conception  is  pre- 
sented by  conventional  means  as  remote  as  possible 
from  modern  realism.  More  than  two-thirds  of  the 
play  is  in  verse,  and  much  of  the  prose  might  as  fairly 
be  termed  poetry.  What  this  poetry  expresses,  how- 
ever, are  simple  human  emotions.  Take  the  very 
opening  scene.  In  beautifully  fluent  verse,  growing 
free  from  the  alTectations  and  the  aggressive  ingenuity 
of  Shakspere's  earlier  work,  we  are  reminded  of  the 
familiar  fact  that  a  man  of  affairs,  rather  deeply  in- 
volved, gets  very  anxious  without  knowing  quite  why. 
The  vigorous  verse  —  a  conventional  means  of  expres- 
sion as  remote  as  music  from  actual  human  utterance 
—  we  enjoy  and  forget.  What  we  remember  is  that 
we  have  been  put  agreeably  in  possession  of  a  state  of 
things  as  true  in  Nineveh  or  in  Wall  Street  as  in  com- 
mercial Venice,  —  a  state  of  things  incessant  wherever 
men  do  business.  Readers  of  Shakspere  are  apt  to 
neglect,  in  discussing  him,  the  obsolete  conventionalism 
of  his  intrinsically  noble  and  beautiful  methods.  Try 
to  locate  a  blank-verse  dialogue,  with  interspersed 
lyrics,  in  a  modern  stock-exchange,  though,  and  you 
will  find  how  differently  Shakspere  would  have  had 
to  express  himself  had  he  written  now.  It  is  well 
for  literature  that  he  was  free  to  use  the  grand  con- 
ventions of  Elizabethan  style  in  setting  forth  his  per- 
manently human  conceptions  of  character. 

Just  how  these  characters  were  conceived,  of  course, 


150  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

no  one  can  assert.  What  one  knows  of  the  way  in 
which  fiction  grows  nowadays,  however,  would  warrant 
at  least  a  confident  guess  that  they  were  conceived  by 
no  conscious  process  of  psychologic  analysis.  Writer 
after  writer,  whose  actual  works  are  of  the  most  vary- 
ing merit,  agree  that  when  they  were  writing  the 
passages  where  their  characters  seem  most  alive,  the 
characters  generally  got  beyond  their  control,  —  doing 
and  saying  things  which  the  writers  never  intended. 
The  plays  we  have  lately  considered,  and  many  still 
to  come,  agree  in  suggesting  that  some  such  process 
of  spontaneously  creative  imagination  was  more  prob- 
ably at  work  in  Shakspere's  mind,  than  was  any  such 
consciously  constructive  method  as  people  of  small 
artistic  experience  are  apt  to  infer  from  his  results. 

Whatever  his  method,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
it  resulted  in  a  presentation  of  character  which  may 
fairly  be  called  sympathetic.  In  this  play  we  instinc- 
tively sympathize  with  everybody.  Baldly  stated, 
Bassanio's  purpose  of  borrowing  money  to  make 
love  to  an  heiress  whose  fortune  shall  pay  his  debts, 
is  by  no  means  that  of  a  romantic  hero ;  no  more 
is  Antonio's  expectoratory  method  of  manifesting 
distaste  for  the  Hebrew  race.  As  Shakspere  puts 
these  things,  however,  we  accept  them  as  unreservedly 
as  we  accept  the  graces  of  Portia.  This  heroine  re- 
mains among  the  most  charming  in  Shakspere,  — 
an  exquisite  type  of  that  unhappily  rare  kind  of 
human  being  who  is  produced  only  by  the  union 
of   high   thinking   and   high  living.      She  is   so  dis- 


THE    MERCHANT   OF    VENICE  151 

tinctly  a  person  of  quality  that  certain  critics  have 
surmised  her  to  indicate  a  definite  improvement  in 
Shakspere's  social  position.  What  is  perhaps  more 
notable  is  that  the  conception  of  such  a  character  in- 
volves in  its  creator  a  trait  not  needful  to  the  concep- 
tion of  the  characters  we  have  met  hitherto,  —  at  least 
a  sympathetic  understanding  of  the  fascination  which 
a  charming  woman,  with  whose  faults  and  errors  you 
are  unacquainted,  can  exercise.  Whether  anybody 
was  ever  in  fact  quite  so  altogether  delightful  as  Portia 
remains  in  fiction,  may  perhaps  be  questioned.  That 
many  a  worthy,  and  unworthy,  woman  has  seemed  so 
to  adoring  men  is  beyond  doubt.  About  the  only 
fault  which  one  c?ii  fairly  find  with  her  is  the  fault 
she  shares  with  all  the  other  delightful  people  in  the 
play.  One  and  all,  with  whom  our  sympathy  is  clearly 
expected  to  go,  treat  Shylock,  who  nowadays  is  made 
almost  equally  sympathetic,  in  a  manner  which  any 
modern  temper  must  deem  cruelly  inhuman. 

Shylock,  like  everybody  else  in  the  play,  is  pre- 
sented as  a  human  being.  Distorted  though  hi? 
nature  be  by  years  of  individual  contempt  and  cen 
turies  of  racial  persecution,  he  remains  a  man.  With 
the  exception  of  his  first  "aside"  in  the  presence  of 
Antonio,^  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  us  from  taking 
his  proposal  of  the  monstrous  bond  as  something 
like  a  jest  on  his  own  usurious  practices  ;  and  for 
all  his  racial  hatred,  he  seems,  like  many  modern 
Hebrews,  anxious  for  decent  and  familiar  treatment 

1  I.  iii.  42-53. 


152  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

by  the  people  among  whom  he  lives.  The  treatment 
he  receives  from  the  very  Christians  he  has  obliged, 
who  apparently  decoy  him  to  supper  that  his  daughter 
may  have  a  chance  for  her  thievish  escapade,  natu- 
rally arouses  all  the  evil  in  him.  His  revenge,  if  not 
admirable,  is  most  comprehensible.  Not  so,  to  mod- 
ern feeling,  is  the  contemptuously  brutal  treatment 
which  he  receives  from  the  charming  people  with 
whom  we  are  expected  to  sympathize  fully. 

To  understand  this,  at  least  as  it  was  meant,  we 
must  forget  the  Nineteenth  Century,  and  revive  at 
least  two  dead  sentiments  which  in  the  time  of  Eliza- 
beth still  survived  :  the  abhorrence  of  usury,  and  the 
abhorrence  of  the  Jewish  race  which  for  centuries 
had  been  fostered  by  the  Church.  Usury,  of  course, 
remained  in  our  own  time,  if  indeed  it  be  not 
still,  a  technical  crime ;  but  except  in  some  pal- 
pably monstrous  form  it  has  never  impressed  any 
sane  living  man  as  intrinsically  evil.  The  only  peo- 
ple nowadays  who  object  to  the  practice  of  lending 
money  at  interest  are  such  envious,  hateful,  and 
malicious  folk  as  happen  to  have  none  to  lend ; 
and  generally  even  the  taking  of  illegally  high 
interest  is  regarded  not  as  an  essentially  wicked 
act,  but  as  a  technically;  as  a  malum  prohibitum, 
like  smuggling,  rather  than  as  a  malum  in  se,  like 
robbery  or  murder.  In  Shakspere's  time,  this  feeling 
was  quite  reversed;  people  had  been  taught,  by  a 
thousand  years  of  bad  ecclesiastical  economy,  that 
whoever  took  interest  on  money  was  essentially  as 


THE   MERCHANT   OF  VENICE  153 

vile  as  a  woman  who  should  sell  herself.  To  such 
a  state  of  mind,  Shylock's  frank  avowal  that  he  takes 
interest  ^  amounts  to  such  a  cynical  profession  of  ras- 
cality as  might  now  once  for  all  repel  sympathy  from 
a  vicious  female  character.  Again,  to  the  mediajval 
mind  —  and  in  many  respects  the  Elizabethan  mind 
remained  mediaeval  —  the  Jew  had  been  represented 
by  centuries  of  churchly  teaching  as  the  living  type 
of  a  race  who  had  deliberately  murdered  an  incar- 
nate God.  Nothing  less  than  a  tremendous  decay 
of  dogmatic  Christianity  could  possibly  have  permitted 
the  growth  of  such  humane  sentiments  toward  Jews 
as  generally  prevail  to-day. 

An  imaginative  effort  to  revive  these  old  senti- 
ments, and  thus  to  place  ourselves  in  the  position  of 
an  Elizabethan  audience,  helps  us  in  some  degree  to 
understand  the  treatment  of  Shylock.  As  Shylock  is 
now  presented  on  the  stage,  however,  his  fate  re- 
mains repellent  —  by  no  means  the  sort  of  thing  we 
expect  in  a  romantic  comedy  where  virtue  and  vice 
get  only  their  deserts.  We  can  hardly  help  feeling 
that,  despite  his  misfortunes  and  his  faults,  the 
grandly  Hebraic  Jew  of  the  modern  stage  is  treated 
outrageously ;  yet  we  cannot  feel  that  any  such  sen- 
timent could  probably  have  been  intended  by  an 
Elizabethan  dramatist.  To  get  at  the  bottom  of  the 
trouble,  we  must  consider  the  stage  history  of  "  the 
Jew  that  Shakspere  drew." 

No  records  of  any  performance  of  the  Merchant  of 

1  I.  iii.  70-103. 


154  WILLIAM   SIIAKSPERE 

Venice  have  been  discovered  earlier  than  1701.  In 
that  year  a  much  altered  version  of  it,  made  by  the 
Marquis  of  Lansdowne,  was  produced  in  London. 
The  Shylock  of  this  version  was  a  broadly  comic 
personage,  with  the  huge  nose  and  red  wig  of  the 
traditional  Judas.  Forty  years  later,  in  1741,  Mack- 
lin  revived  Shakspere's  play,  and  played  Shylock 
in  something  resembling  the  modern  manner.  From 
that  time  to  this,  for  al)ove  a  century  and  a  half, 
Shylock  has  looked  not  like  a  Jew,  but  like  a  Hebrew, 
Very  clearly,  the  Lansdowne  tradition  of  broad,  low 
comedy  does  not  fit  Shakspere's  lines.  Shylock,  as 
a  cliaracter,  is  a  great,  serious  Shaksperean  creation, 
which  may  be  psychologically  studied  almost  like  a 
real  human  being.  In  this  psychologically  sympa- 
thetic age,  we  are  given  to  this  sort  of  study ;  in 
literature,  at  all  events,  we  consider  rather  what 
people  actually  are  than  what  they  look  like.  We 
neglect  the  various  bodily  forms  in  which  character 
may  manifest  itself ;  no  cant  is  more  popular  than 
that  which  disdains  appearances.  Such  cant  was  as 
foreign  to  Shakspere's  time  as  any  other  form  of 
sentimental  philanthropy ;  to  an  Elizabethan  audi- 
ence, what  looked  mean  was  for  that  very  reason 
essentially  contemptible.  Tbough  no  actual  records 
support  the  conclusion,  then,  it  seems  more  than 
probable  that  the  real  Shylock  of  Shakspere's  stage 
combined  the  old  traditions  with  the  new,  —  that  in 
make-up,  in  appearance,  in  manner,  he  was  meanly 
"  Jewy ; "    while   the   tremendous    creative   imagina- 


THE  MERCHANT  OF   VENICE.  155 

tion  of  the  dramatist  made  him  at  heart  sympatheti- 
cally human.  Only  under  such  circumstances  could 
the  fate  of  Shylock  be  artistically  tolerable. 

At  all  events,  we  have  certain  side-lights  on  the 
matter.  Elizabethan  England  was  childishly  brutal ; 
to-day,  indeed,  England  sometimes  seems  more 
robustly  unsympathetic  than  America.  In  actual 
lunacy,  as  the  Changeling/  of  Middleton  will  show, 
the  England  of  Elizabeth  saw  not  something  horrible, 
but  rather  something  conventionally  comic  —  much 
as  drunkenness  is  still  held  comic  on  the  stage. 
In  })hysical  suffering  it  often  saw  mere  grotesque 
contortion :  witness  the  frequency  of  thrashing  in 
old  comedy.  And  even  to-day,  we  are  less  sin- 
cerely beyond  these  things  than  we  sometimes  ad- 
mit. After  all,  what  repels  our  sympathy  in  the 
Merchant  of  Venice  is,  not  so  much  the  actual  treat- 
ment which  Shylock  receives  as  the  grandly  He- 
braic aspect  of  the  personage  whom  we  see  receive 
it.  Substitute  for  this  figure  a  meanly  cringing 
one,  like  the  pimps  and  pawnbrokers  who  still  com- 
pose the  Jewish  rabble,  and,  for  all  Shakspere's 
sympathetic  psychology,  Shylock  will  seem  to  get 
little  else  than  his  deserts.  If  this  be  true  now- 
adays, it  would  be  vastly  more  true  in  an  age  so 
foreign  to  our  fine  philanthropy  as  the  brutally 
childish  England  of  Elizabeth  ;  and  some  such  child- 
ishly imfeeling  conception  was  probably  the  real 
conception  of  Shakspere.  As  an  artistic  playwright, 
he  could  not  have   meant  our  sympathy  to  go  with 


156  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

Shylock ;  yet  no  rendering  of  Shylock  which  makes 
the  man  look  noble  enough  to  be  seriously  sympa- 
thetic could  ever  have  failed  to  command  sympathy. 
There  are  few  facts  in  the  Elizabethan  drama  which 
more  strongly  emphasize  the  remoteness  from  our- 
selves not  only  of  Elizabethan  England,  but  also  of 
Shakspere,  the  Elizabethan  playwright. 

This  view  of  Shakspere  we  must  always  keep  in 
mind.  As  we  come  to  these  more  lasting  of  his  works, 
we  are  prone  to  forget  it.  In  the  MercTiavit  of  Venice, 
for  example,  we  cannot  but  find,  along  with  what  we 
have  already  glanced  at,  a  constantly  growing  beauty, 
gravity,  significance  of  mere  poetry ;  everywhere,  in 
short,  we  feel  Shakspere's  grasp  of  life  growing 
firmer,  his  wisdom  deeper.  We  are  tempted  to  guess 
that  all  this  is  not  merely  temperamental,  but  pro- 
foundly, philosophically  conscious.  We  may  generally 
be  preserved  from  this  temptation,  however,  by  such 
constant  consideration  of  fact  as  in  this  chapter  we 
have  insisted  upon.  Among  the  hypotheses  about 
this  play,  the  simplest  is  this :  A  stage  playwright 
of  that  olden  time  set  himself  the  regular  task  of 
translating  into  effective  dramatic  form  an  archai- 
cally trivial  old  story.  In  the  course  of  some  nine 
years  of  practice  he  had  so  mastered  his  technical  art, 
theatrical  and  literary  alike,  and  had  so  awakened 
his  own  faculty  of  spontaneously  creative  imagina- 
tion, that  he  made  his  version  of  the  story  perma- 
nently plausible.  He  did  more ;  like  any  masterly 
artist,  he  introduced  into  his  work  touch  after  touch  of 


THE   TAMIN(;   OF  TilE  SHREW  157 

the  kind  which  makes  works  of  art  endlessly  sugges- 
tive to  ages  more  and  more  f(3reign,  in  thouglit  and  in 
feeling,  to  the  age  which  produced  them.  The  Mer- 
chant of  Venice,  then,  is  full  of  implicit  wisdom,  and 
beauty,  and  significance.  That  Shakspere  realized  all 
this,  however,  does  not  follow.  Critics  who  declare  a 
great  artist  fully  conscious  of  whatever  his  work 
implies  are  generally  those  who  least  know  how 
works  of  art  are  made. 


VIII.    The  Taming  op  the  Shrew. 

[The  Taming  of  the  Shrew,  in  its  present  form,  appeared  first  in  the 
folio  of  1623.     There  is  no  certain  allusion  to  it  at  any  earlier  date. 

On  May  2nd,  1594,  however,  "A  pleasant  conceited  history  called 
the  Taymmg  of  a  Shrowe  "  was  entered  in  the  Stationers'  Register. 
This,  which  was  published  in  (jnarto  durinj;  the  same  year,  is  evidently 
the  source,  if  not  the  original  version,  of  the  comedy  finally  ascribed  to 
Shakspere.  Who  wrote  the  earlier  play,  how  much  of  the  final 
play  may  be  pronounced  Shakspere's,  and  to  what  period  we  may 
assign  his  work  on  it,  have  been  much  discussed  with  no  certain  result. 

It  .seems  probable  that  the  play  as  we  have  it  is  the  work  of  several 
hands,  revised  by  Shakspere  somewhere  about  1597.] 

If  the  Taming  of  a  Shrew  be  Shakspere's,  and  such, 
at  least  to  a  considerable  degree,  we  may  assume  it  until 
further  adverse  evidence  ajjpears,  it  is  in  various  Avays 
different  from  any  of  his  work  which  we  have  as  yet 
considered.  In  the  plays  discussed  in  the  lust  chap- 
ter, Shakspere  seemed  plainly  to  be  trying  his  hand, 
with  marked  versatility,  at  various  experiments.  In 
the  plays  hitherto  discussed  in  this  chapter,  he  has 


158  "WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

seemed  the  master  of  his  veliicle,  which  with  more  or 
less  artistic  seriousness  he  has  used  to  express  the 
various  moods  into  which  his  various  subjects  have 
thrown  liim.  In  this  play  one  finds  far  less  definite 
artistic  motive  than  in  those  which  we  have  lately 
read ;  yet  at  the  same  time  one  finds  such  easy  mastery 
of  dramatic  technique  that  the  Taming  of  the  Shrew 
remains  among  the  most  popular  light  comedies  on 
the  English  stage.  The  play  is  a  rollicking  farce,  so 
full  of  fun  that,  whether  we  read  or  see  it,  we  accept 
its  assumptions.  When  we  stop  to  consider,  we  are 
surprised  to  find  these  involving  that  archaic  view  of 
conjugal  relations  which  permits  the  husband,  provided 
his  stick  be  not  too  big,  to  enforce  domestic  discipline 
by  whipping.  All  of  which  is  at  once  less  serious 
than  the  artistic  plays  we  have  dealt  with,  and  more 
skilful  than  the  experimental. 

One  reason  for  this  peculiar  effect  may  lie  in 
the  fact  that  while  most  of  the  plays  we  have  lately 
considered  are  almost  certainly  Shakspere's  through- 
out, a  large  part  of  the  Taming  of  the  Shrew  is  thought 
to  be  by  others.  The  old  Taming  of  a  Shrew  was  in 
all  probability  by  somebody  else,  though  by  whom  we 
cannot  be  sure.  The  passages  about  Bianca  and  most 
of  the  other  minor  characters  are  very  likely  by  some 
intervening  hand.  This  leaves  to  Shakspere  him- 
self little  more  than  the  characters  of  Slv,  Katharine, 
and  Petruchio,  with  occasional  touches  throughout, — 
a  state  of  things  quite  in  accordance  with  the  habitual 
collaboration  of  the  Elizabethan  theatre. 


THE  TAMING  OF   THE  SHREW  159 

Collaborative  or  not,  however,  the  play  has  a  dis- 
tinct effect  of  its  own,  which  is  by  no  means  one  of 
palpable  patchwork.  Its  plot,  to  begin  with,  is  swift 
and  constant  in  action,  and  quite  firm  enough  still 
to  hold  the  attention  of  any  audience.  Even  if  the 
play  were  not  by  Shakspere  at  all,  too,  it  contains 
one  feature,  unique  in  the  work  ascribed  to  Shaks- 
pere, but  common  in  the  drama  of  his  time,  which 
would  be  well  worth  our  attention.  This  is  the  In- 
duction, which  makes  the  main  action  a  play  within  a 
play.  Probably  intended  to  be  followed  by  improvised 
remarks  between  scenes,  it  was  almost  certainly  in- 
tended to  be  balanced  by  a  formal  epilogue,  or  conclu 
sion,  in  which  Sly  should  fall  asleep  as  lord,  and  wake 
up  as  tinker.  Eccentric  as  such  a  device  seems  nowa- 
days, it  is  very  suggestive  of  the  conditions  of  the 
Elizabethan  theatre  ;  it  clearly  exemplifies,  too,  the  old 
convention  which  Shakspere  developed  into  the  artis- 
tic removal  from  real  life  of  whatever  in  the  Midsum- 
mer Night's  Bream  or  in  the  Merchant  of  Venice  was 
at  first  blush  incredible. 

Inductions,  interpolated  comments  by  the  person- 
ages thereof,  and  final  conclusions,  were  common  on 
the  Elizabethan  stage.  A  glance  at  the  works  of 
Greene  or  of  Peele,  or  at  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's 
Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle^  will  show  how  general 
this  sort  of  thing  was.  Impracticable  on  our  own  stage, 
it  was  exactly  fitted  to  the  conditions  of  the  stage  by 
which  all  of  Shakspere's  plays  were  produced.  On 
either  side  of  that  stage,  we  remember,  in  the  place  now 


160  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

occupied  by  proscenium  boxes,  were  seats  where  the 
more  fashionable  part  of  the  audience  sat,  themselves 
a  brilliant  feature  of  the  spectacle  afforded  to  the  more 
vulgar  company  in  the  pit  or  the  gallery.  Among  these 
people  of  quality,  the  actors  in  the  Induction  could 
seat  themselves  while  the  main  play  went  on,  forming 
a  natural  system  of  intermediates  between  audience 
and  play  —  actually  part  of  both.  When  the  audience 
was  banished  from  the  stage,  such  a  proceeding 
became  impracticable.  Finally  the  whole  system 
merged  into  the  rhymed  prologue,  which  has  dis- 
appeared in  turn.  It  is  interesting  to  us  chiefly  as 
a  fresh  reminder  that  the  stage  for  which  Shakspere 
made  his  plays  was  a  totally  different  thing  from 
the  stage  to  which  we  are  accustomed. 

In  itself,  to  be  sure,  the  Induction  of  the  Ta7ning 
of  the  Shrew  is  comical.  So  is  the  real  play.  Neither, 
however,  possesses  very  individual  traits ;  both  deal, 
after  the  manner  of  their  day,  with  such  incidents 
as  compose  the  stock  plots  of  Italian  novels,  at  that 
time  generally  popular. 

To  pass  to  the  characters  of  the  Taming  of  the 
Shrew,  we  find  them,  with  three  exceptions,  merely 
conventional  stage  figures,  of  the  sort  which  figured  in 
Shakspere's  earlier  experimental  work.  These  ex- 
ceptions are  those  on  which  we  have  already  touched, 
—  Sly  in  the  Induction,  and  in  the  play  Katharine 
and  Petruchio.  At  least  contrasted  with  the  other 
characters,  these  seem  almost  Shaksperean  in  vitality. 
Certainly  the  queerly  matched  pair,  for  all  their  extrav- 


THE   TAMING   OF   THE   SHREW  161 

agance  of  humour,  —  in  the  Elizabethan  sense  of  the 
word  as  well  as  in  ours,  —  have  a  vitality  which 
blinds  us  to  the  outrageously  archaic  state  of  their 
matrimonial  relations,  much  as  the  vitality  of  the 
characters  in  the  Merchant  of  Venice  blinds  us  to  the 
absurd  conditions  which  surround  them.  It  is  idle  to 
pretend,  however,  that  even  the  most  human  charac- 
ters in  the  Taming  of  the  Shrew  come  anywhere  near 
the  full  vitality  frequent  in  the  better  plays  which 
have  preceded. 

To  a  great  extent,  one  may  say  the  same  of  the  at- 
mosphere. This  is  conventionally  Italian,  and  plaus- 
ible enough  for  its  purpose.  Certainly,  though,  it  is 
little  more.  Conceivably  one  might  imagine  in  this 
environment  the  personages  of  the  Ttvo  Grentlemen  of 
Verona;  by  a  stretch  of  imagination,  one  might  possibly 
imagine  here  some  stray  personages  from  Romeo  and 
Juliet  or  from  the  Merchant  of  Venice.  Even  these, 
however,  would  seem  out  of  place ;  while  the  person- 
ages of  the  Italian  plays  to  come  could  no  more  appear 
in  the  Italy  of  Petruchio  than  Petruchio  himself  could 
appear  unaltered  in  real  life. 

Altogether,  the  more  one  considers  this  perennially 
amusing  play,  the  less  substantial  one  finds  it;  after 
all,  it  proves  to  be  only  a  hack-made  farce.  It  is 
a  good  farce,  however ;  though  fun  is  the  most  evan- 
escent trait  of  any  literary  period,  it  is  lastingly  funny; 
and,  considering  that  in  all  likeliliood  it  proceeds  from 
at  least  three  distinct  hands,  it  has  surprising  unity  of 

diverting  effect.  Such  unity  of  effect  can  hardly  be  acci- 

11 


162  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

dental.  There  is  no  reason  for  not  attributing  it  to 
the  practised  and  skilful  hand  of  Shakspere,  revising 
and  completing  the  cruder  work  of  others. 

Pleasant  as  we  may  find  all  this,  there  is  no  deny- 
ing that  the  Taming  of  the  Shrew,  far  from  carrying 
comedy  to  a  point  beyond  that  which  it  had  already 
reached  in  Shakspere's  hands,  is  probably  less  effec- 
tive,—  or  at  least  less  artistically  serious,  —  than 
anything,  of  any  kind,  which  we  have  considered 
since  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona.  At  first  glance, 
this  seems  to  count  strongly  against  our  chronol- 
ogy. To  understand  it,  as  a  little  while  ago  to 
understand  King  John,  we  must  consider  along  with 
this  rollicking  farce  the  other  work  which  modern 
chronology  assumes  to  be  contemporary  with  it. 
Here  the  contemporary  play  is  Henry  IV. 


IX.    Henry  IV. 

[For  our  purposes  the  two  parts  of  Henry  IV.  may  be  considered 
together. 

The  First  Part  was  entered  in  the  Stationers'  Register  on  February 
25th,  1598.  It  was  published  during  the  same  year,  and  was  four  times 
republished  during  Shakspere's  lifetime. 

The  Second  Part  was  entered  in  the  Stationers'  Register  on  August 
23rd,  1600.  It  was  published  during  the  same  year.  No  other  quarto 
of  it  is  known.  There  is  reason  to  believe,  however,  that  it  was  writ- 
ten before  the  publication  of  the  First  Part.  In  the  quarto  of  1600,  for 
one  thing,  the  name  Old  is  prefixed  to  one  of  Falstaff!e  speeches,  while 
throughout  the  First  Part  Falstaff's  name  is  substituted  for  that  of 
Oldcastle ;  from  which  we  may  fairly  infer  that  the  Second  Part  was 
written  before  the  change  of  name  from  Oldcastle  to  Falstaff  occurred. 


HEXRY  IV  163 

The  sources  of  both  parts,  a.s  well  as  of  Henry  V.,  are  Ilolinshed  and 
an  old  play,  published  in  1598,  called  the  Famous  Victories  of  Henry 
the  Fifth,  etc. 

Meres  mentioned  Henry  IV  as  one  of  Shakspere's  plays.  Vari- 
ous other  allusions  to  the  play  during  Shaksjjere's  lifetime  indicate 
that  the  characters  of  Falstaff,  Shallow,  and  Silence  were  generally 
familiar. 

Modern  critics  agree  in  conjecturally  assigning  the  whole  play  to 
1597  or  1598.] 

Henry  IV.  may  be  assigned,  more  confidently  than 
usual,  to  the  years  immediately  following  that  to 
which  we  assigned  the  Merchant  of  Venice.  To  the 
earlier  of  these  years  we  assigned  the  Taming  of  the 
Shrew,  which  thus  appears  to  be,  like  Richard  III. 
or  King  John,  the  off-hand  work  of  a  moment  when 
Shakspere's  chief  energies  were  absorbed  by  another 
kind  of  writing.  Taken  together,  too,  the  years  1597 
and  1598  were  undoubtedly  those  in  which  Shaks- 
pere's dramatic  work  began  to  be  published,  the  years 
when  arms  were  granted  to  his  father,  the  years 
when  he  began  to  buy  land,  the  years  when  Meres's 
allusion  proves  him  to  have  become  a  recognized  man 
of  letters,  and  the  years  when  the  correspondence 
of  Sturley  and  of  Quiney  shows  that  his  fellow-towns- 
men thought  him  a  person  of  consequence  in  London. 
We  may  fairly  conclude,  then,  that  Henry  IV.  was  at 
least  among  the  plays  which  he  was  making  when, 
after  ten  years  of  professional  work,  his  power  was 
beginning  to  bring  him  both  fortune  and  reputation. 

It  becomoB  interesting,  then,  to  inquire  what,  if  any, 
is  the  leading  trait  of  this  Henry  IV.,  the  play  which 
more  than  any  other  marks  the  emergence  of  Shaks- 


164  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

pere  into  full  contemporary  recognition.  This  trait  is 
plain.  More  than  any  of  the  plays  we  have  considered 
hitherto,  Henry  IV.  is  completely  plausible.  When- 
ever or  wherever  one  read  it,  one  puts  it  down  with  a 
sense  that  one  has  been  in  contact  with  actual  life. 
This  total  impression  absorbs  all  memory  of  the  me- 
dium by  which  this  actual  life  has  been  brought  to  us. 
We  forget  details,  of  construction,  of  style,  even  of 
character  ;  we  are  conscious  only  of  a  profound  im- 
pression that  we  have  seen  real  people,  who  have 
done  real  things. 

Surprising  as  this  effect  is,  a  little  closer  inspection 
of  the  text  makes  it  more  so  still.  On  the  titlepage 
of  the  earliest  quarto,  as  well  as  in  the  Stationers' 
Register,  the  name  of  Falstaff  is  quite  as  conspicuous 
as  that  of  the  King.  "  With  the  humorous  conceits 
of  Sir  John  Falstalffe,"  reads  the  titlepage ;  and  the 
line  is  purposely  so  removed  from  the  preceding  ones 
as  instantly  to  attract  any  eye.  Clearly,  Henry  IV. 
has  two  parts,  throughout :  the  first  deals  with  such 
actually  historical  matter  as  became  familiar  in  the 
earlier  chronicle-histories  ;  the  second  is  an  independ- 
ent comedy  of  manners,  with  no  historical  basis  at 
all.  These  two  parts  are  united  by  little  more  than 
the  figure  of  the  Prince  —  to  say  the  character  of  the 
Prince  were  almost  misleading,  for  his  conduct  and 
speeches  in  the  historical  scenes  differ  completely  from 
his  conduct  and  speeches  in  the  comic.  What  is  more, 
the  two  parts  differ  similarly  throughout :  the  histori- 
cal preserves  with  little  change  the  long  declamatory 


HENRY  IV  165 

speeches,  and  the  highly  conventionalized  incident,  of 
the  old  chronicle-history;  the  comic  part  is  almost 
literal  in  its  humorous  presentation  of  low  London 
life.  Such  incongruity, to  be  sure,  was  no  new  thing; 
we  find  something  like  it  in  the  Famous  Victories, 
something  like  it,  too,  in  the  Troublesome  Raigne  ;  and 
the  old  miracle-plays  are  full  of  it.  The  surprising 
thing  about  Henry  IV.  is  that  its  incongruity,  unlike 
that  of  these  older  plays,  troubles  us  no  more  than  the 
constant  incongruity  of  real  life.  When  not  disposed 
to  be  very  critical,  we  accept  it  without  question. 

As  we  begin  to  study  the  play,  one  reason  for  this 
plausibility  transpires.  Marked  as  the  incongruity  of 
the  two  parts  at  fust  appears,  it  proves,  on  inspection, 
to  be  a  matter  of  little  more  than  diction.  Inimi- 
tably human  as  Falstaff's  scenes  seem  to  a  reader, 
they  are  not  composed  in  a  manner  which  could  be 
effectively  presented  on  a  modern  stage.  Like  the 
scenes  where  the  King  figures,  they  are  rather  a  series 
of  long  speeches,  not  interwoven  but  strung  together, 
than  a  strictly  dramatic  composition.  In  our  time 
they  lend  themselves  more  readily  to  reading  than  to 
acting.  The  infrequency  of  Falstaff  on  the  modern 
stage  is  probably  due  not  so  much  to  the  fact  that  few 
can  act  him,  as  to  the  fact  that  in  order  to  be  act- 
able under  our  present  dramatic  conditions,  his  lines 
would  have  to  be  rewritten.  From  end  to  end,  in 
short,  Henry  IV.  is  composed  not  as  a  modern  play, 
but  as  a  typical  old  chronicle-history. 

What  makes  it  so  plausible,  then,  is  not  that  it 


166  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

discards  old  conventions.  Nobody  anywhere,  for  ex- 
ample, is  more  frankly  rhetorical  than  the  King ;  ^ 
Hotspur  dies  2  as  blatantly  as  John  of  Gaunt  died  ;^ 
even  Falstaff  himself  and  the  Prince  declaim  with  a 
disregard  of  action  as  complete  as  Mercutio's  when  he 
introduces  his  lyric  description  of  Queen  Mab.  In 
mere  form,  Henry  IV.  is  as  conventional  as  it  can  be. 
What  makes  it  seem  otherwise  is  that  here,  as  in  the 
Merchant  of  Venice,  these  obsolete  conventions  are 
used,  with  the  confidence  of  full  technical  mastery, 
to  express  conceptions  of  human  character  which 
throughout  are  consistently  vital.  In  our  sense  of 
this  great  feat  of  creative  imagination,  we  never  stop 
to  consider  the  means  by  which  it  is  accomplished ; 
we  forget  the  vehicle,  we  are  aware  only  of  the  con- 
ceptions it  conveys.  Ultimately,  then,  the  lasting  dif- 
ference of  effect  between  the  Merchant  of  Venice  and 
Henry  IV.  resolves  itself  into  the  accidental  differ- 
ence between  their  subjects.  What  the  living  people 
in  the  Merchant  of  Venice  do  proves  on  consideration 
childishly  incredible ;  what  the  living  people  do  in 
Henry  IV.  is  substantially  historical.  It  is  the  fun- 
damental truth  of  chronicle-history  combining  with 
Shakspere's  intense  power  of  creative  imagination, 
already  declared  in  fantastic  comedy,  which  makes 
Henry  IV.  a  new  thing  in  literature. 
A  new  thing  in  literature  it  undoubtedly  is,  though  ; 

1  E.  g.  1  Hen.  /F.  I.  i. ;  2  Hen.  IV.  IIL  i.  1-31. 

2  I  Hen.  IV.  V.  iv.  77-86. 
«  R.  II.  II.  i. 


HENRY   IV    .  167 

and  a  thing  not  destined  to  be  fully  developed  until 
our  own  century.  Its  deliberate  intermingling  of 
vigorous  fiction  with  the  general  outline  of  acknowl- 
edged history,  reawakens  into  actual  life  a  long- 
past  world.  The  archaism  of  its  form  and  manner 
allies  it  to  the  older  work  of  Greene,  of  Peele,  of  Mar- 
lowe ;  it  remains  chronicle-history.  The  full  vitality 
of  its  conception  allies  it  rather  to  the  novels  of  Walter 
Scott ;  chronicle-history  though  it  be,  it  is  at  the  same 
time  our  first,  and  by  no  means  our  least,  example  of 
historical  fiction. 

In  the  presence  of  so  great  a  feat  of  creative  imagi- 
nation as  this,  —  a  feat  which  gives  us  a  kind  of  art 
hitherto  unknown,  — we  naturally  feel  ourselves  eager 
to  seek,  if  we  may,  for  some  glimpse  of  how  the  feat 
presented  itself  to  the  man  who  performed  it.  On 
this  point  there  is  something  resembling  evidence. 
Certainly  the  most  notable  character  in  Henry  IV. 
is  Falstaff,  and  there  remain  indications  of  how 
Falstaff  grew. 

The  original  name  of  this  character  is  known  to 
have  been  Oldcastle.  The  change  of  name  is  thought 
to  have  been  made  in  deference  to  members  of  the 
Oldcastle  family,^  who  naturally  did  not  relish  the 
revival  of  their  ancestor  in  precisely  this  form. 
Though  Falstaff  as  we  have  him,  then,  be  a  pure  fic- 
tion, at  least  his  name  —  and  in  some  slight  degree 
the  tradition  it  stood  for — originally  had  historic 
basis.     Sir  John  Oldcastle,  Lord  Cobham,  was  a  gen- 

1  See  the  epilogue  to  2  Henrif  IV. 


168  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

tleman  of  the  time  of  Henry  Y.,  whose  liberal  prin- 
ciples got  him  into  trouble  with  the  Church  ;  the  King 
abandoned  him  to  the  mercy  of  the  Church,  which 
burned  him  at  the  stake  for  such  heresy  as  later 
would  have  been  called  Protestantism.  In  Elizabeth's 
time,  accordingly,  Oldcastle  was  a  Protestant,  or  rather 
a  Puritan,  hero,  duly  commemorated  at  great  length  in 
Foxe's  Book  of  Martyrs.  A  passage  from  this  narra- 
tive tells  how  when  he  was  bidden  to  confess  himself 
to  the  Churcli,  before  going  to  trial  and  execution,  he 
refused  to  make  any  other  confession  than  a  public 
one  to  God  :  ^  — 

*'And  with  that  he   kneeled   down   on  the  pavement, 

holding  up  his  hands  towards  heaven,  and  said:   '  I  shrive 

myself    here    unto    thee,    my    eternal    living 

confesseth  him-  God,  that  in  my  frail  youth  I  offended  thee, 

self  unto  Qod.       ^-,1.  •  1       •  -i  ,^  1 

0  Lord!  most  grievously  in  pride,  wrath,  and 
gluttony,  in  covetousness,  and  in  lechery.  Many  men 
have  I  hurt  in  mine  anger,  and  done  many  other  horrible 
sins;  good  Lord,  I  ask  thy  mercy.'  And  therewith  weep- 
ingly  he  stood  up  again,  and  said  with  a  mighty  voice: 
*  Lo,  good  people !  lo  ;  for  the  breaking  of  God's  law  and 
his  great  commandments,  they  never  yet  cursed  me,  but, 
for  their  own  laws  and  traditions,  most  cruelly  do  they 
handle  both  me  and  other  men  ;  and  therefore,  both  they 
and  their  laws,  by  the  promise  of  God,  shall  be  utterly 
destroyed.'     (Jer.  ii.)." 

From   his   own  words,  then,  we  may  believe  that 
the  Puritan  hero,  in  his  unregenerate  state,  had  been 

*  Foxe:  Acts  and  Monuments :  Loudon,  1841:  iii.  330. 


IIEXRY  IV  169 

guilty  of  pride,  wrath  and  gluttony,  covetousncss  and 
lechery,  hard  fighting,  and  many  other  horrible  sins.  To 
speak  very  generally,  so  had  the  Falstaff  of  Henry  IV. 
In  Shakspcre's  time  Oldcastle  was  a  familiar  figure 
on  the  stage.  There  still  exists  an  old  play  bearing 
his  name,  which  was  once  ascribed  to  Shakspere. 
This  play,  to  be  sure,  commonly  })resents  him  as  a 
Protestant  hero;  now  and  then,  however, he  disguises 
himself,  to  escape  persecution,  in  a  manner  which 
must  have  been  comic.  There  are  various  traces 
elsewhere  of  a  hroadlv  comic  Oldcastle  in  some  old 
play,  —  for  exami)le,  an  allusion  to  "the  rich  rubies 
and  incomparable  carbuncles  of  Sir  John  Oldcastle's 
nose."  In  the  Fainous  Victories,  too,  Oldcastle  appears 
among  the  boon  companions  of  the  riotous  Prince, 
and  makes  one  speech  which  suggests  Falstaff's 
temper  :  ^ 

"  If  the  old  king  my  father  was  dead," 

says  the  Prince, 

"  We  would  all  be  kings." 

"  Hee  is  a  good  olde  man," 

answers  Sir  John  Oldcastle. 

"  God  take  him  to  his  mercy  the  sooner." 

What  reminds  one  of  Falstaff  in  that  speech  is  not 
only  its  temper,  but  the  religious  allusion.  In  his 
second  speech,  for  example,  Falstaff  says, — 

J  Facsimile  of  Qu.  1598,  p.  17. 


1 


170  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

**  God  save  thy  grace,  —  majesty  I  should  say,  for  grace  thou  wilt 
have  none."  ^ 

In  the  same  scene  ^  is  this  more  familiar  speech, 

"  Now  am  I,  if  a  man  should  speak  truly,  little  better  than  one  of 
the  wicked." 

Later  in  the  play  ^  comes  his  well-known  utterance, 

"  Thou  knowest  in  the  state  of  innocency  Adam  fell ;  and  what 
should  poor  Jack  Falstaff  do  in  the  days  of  villany  ?  " 

And  in  the  wonderful  tale  of  his  death  *  the  Hostess 
says, 

"  He  was  rheumatic,  and  talked  of  the  whore  of  Babylon;" 
to  which  the  Boy  adds  that 

"  a'  saw  a  flea  stick  upon  Bardolph's  nose,  and  a'  said  it  was  a 
black  soul  burning  in  hell-fire." 

Shakspere's  Falstaff,  in  short,  talks  a  great  deal  of 
Puritan  cant. 

From  these  facts,  and  from  the  well-known  ten- 
dency of  artistic  folk  to  satirize  lax  or  erratic  godli- 
ness, there  is  reason  to  infer  that  the  traditional 
Oldcastle  of  the  stage,  and  so  the  original  conception 
of  Falstaff,  was  such  a  satire  on  Puritanism  as  one 
finds  in  Middleton's  Chmte  Maid  in  Cheapside,  in 
Ben  Jonson's  Bartholomew  Fair,  in  Hudihras,  or  in 
the  Reverend  Mr.  Stiggins  of  the  Pickwick  Papers. 

Clearly,  however,  the  Falstaff  of  Henry  IV.  is  no 
such  personage  as  this.  How  the  change  came,  we 
can  never  quite  know ;  but  whoever  is  familiar  with 

1  1  //.  IV.  Lii.  18.  2  Line  io5. 

»  111.  iii.  185.  <  Henru  V.  II.  iii.  40-43. 


HENRY   IV  171 

the  way  in  which  good  fiction  grows,  can  make  a 
pretty  sure  guess.  In  a  little  play  lately  written  for 
private  acting  there  was  a  character  so  consistent  as 
to  excite  the  admiration  of  the  actor  who  played  it. 
A.  certain  subtle  slowness  of  mind  underlay  every 
speech  ;  and  at  last,  when  the  personage  grew  warm 
with  wine,  his  drunkenness  was  of  a  kind  which  in- 
volved this  mental  habit.  The  actor  thereupon  com- 
plimented the  author  on  his  skilful  psychology  ;  when 
presently  it  appeared  that  the  author  had  not  even 
been  aware  that  his  personage  got  drunk  at  all  — 
he  had  only  felt  sure  that  of  course  when  the  fellow 
in  question  spoke  he  must  perforce  speak  the  words 
written  down.  This  whole  process  of  remarkably 
consistent  creation,  in  short,  had  been  completely  un- 
conscious. The  case  is  typical.  Imagine  it  to  be  as 
true  of  Falstaff  as  it  is  of  the  smaller  creatures  whose 
growth  we  mav  still  watch  in  detail.  Intended  for  a 
burlesque  Puritan,  the  fat  knight  begins  to  speak  and 
move  of  his  own  accord.  By  an  inevitable  process  of 
spontaneous  growth,  he  gathers  about  himself  a  new, 
fictitious  world,  more  real  if  anything  than  the  histor- 
ical world  amid  which  it  is  placed.  As  must  constantly 
be  the  case,  in  short,  with  the  work  of  artists  whose 
creative  imagination  is  fully  alive,  the  conception  out- 
grows its  origin ;  it  develops  not  into  a  conventional 
type,  but  into  an  individual  character  of  unique  vitality. 
Long  before  FalstafP  was  himself,  Oldcastle  and  Puri- 
tanism must  have  been  forgotten  ;  until,  at  last,  with 
complete  truth  as  well  as  manners,  Shakspere  could 


1"2  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

write  that  "  Oldcastle  died  a  martyr,  and  this  is  not 
the  man."  ^ 

Whatever  his  process  of  growth,  Falstaff  is  cer- 
tainly among  the  most  human  figures  in  English  liter- 
ature.    What  is  more,  the   world  surrounding  him, 
and  particularly  the  Eastcheap  tavern,  are  more  like 
actual    every-day   life  than   almost   anything  else  in 
Shakspere.      What  Shakspere  generally  expresses  is 
profound  knowledge  of  human  nature ;  here  we  have 
also  a  vivid  picture  of  Elizabethan  manners.     In  this 
aspect,  the  Falstaff  scenes  of  Henry  1 V.  have  an  added 
interest,  historical  and  biographical  alike.    As  has  been 
said  before,  there  was  no  Bohemia  in  Shakspere's  Eng- 
land :  whoever  was  not  regular  in  life  had  to  be  hand 
and  glove  with  thieves  and  cut-throats  ;  and,  to  go  no 
further,  the  known  history  of  Greene  and  of  Marlowe 
is  enough  to  prove  that  the  environment  so  vividly  set 
forth  in  the  tavern  scenes  of  He^iry  IV.  is  that  from 
which  proceeded  the  early  masterpieces  of  the  Eliza- 
bethan drama.     In  Shakspere's  own  life,  too,  we  have 
seen  that  Henry  IV.  marks  the  moment  of  emergence 
from  Bohemian   obscurity   into   permanent   personal 
respectability.     The  inference  is  fair,  then,  that  this 
great  spontaneous  picture  of  the  cradle  of  our  stage 
marks  the  time  when  Shakspere  himself  had  grown 
beyond  it,  yet  was  still  near  enough  to  realize  all  its 
features.     Only  at  such  moments,  perhaps,  are  com- 
plete conceptions  of  actual  experience  possible.^ 
Falstaff  and  his  world,  however,  by  no  means  ex- 

^  2H.1V.  Epilogue.  2  See  p.  43. 


HENRY  IV  173 

haust  the  creative  energy  of  Henry  IV.  In  another 
way,  the  same  trait  so  pervades  all  the  historical  pas- 
sages that,  to  a  degree  rare  anywhere,  we  can  con- 
stantly feel  the  great  movement  of  historical  forces. 
For  one  thing,  mark  how  this  play  and  Richard  U 
are  bound  together  by  the  lines :  — 

"  Northumberland,  thou  hidder  by  the  which 
My  cousin  Bolingbroke  ascends  my  throne."* 

The  example  typifies  how  all  the  evil  which  broke 
loose  in  Richard's  time  is  in  the  air.  Men  here  are 
in  the  hands  of  fate,  working  itself  out  on  a  scale  far 
beyond  any  human  lifetime.  In  private  affairs,  too, 
as  well  as  in  public,  one  feels  forces  beyond  human 
control ;  a  student  of  heredity,  for  example,  might 
note  with  approval  how  clearly  the  sons  of  Boling- 
broke display,  each  in  his  own  way,  the  lax  sense 
of  honor  which  marked  the  youth  of  their  father. 
It  is  the  Bolingbroke  blood  which  makes  Prince  John 
of  Lancaster  equivocally  entrap  his  enemies,^  and 
which  makes  the  Prince  of  Wales,  for  all  his  ultimate 
heroism,  so  cruelly  untrue  to  his  boon  companions.'^ 
Henry  IV.,  in  short,  can  properly  give  rise  to  endlessly 
grave,  and  perhaps  pregnant,  philosophizing. 

So  may  actual  life.  What  conclusions  may  be  drawn 
concerning  the  ultimate  meaning  of  actual  life  may 
hardly  be  discussed  here.  One  thing,  however,  is  cer- 
tain.    The  nearer  any  great  work  of  art  approaches 

>  R.  II.  V.  i.  55 ;  2  Hen.  IV.  III.  i.  70. 

«  2  H.IV.  IV.  ii.  3  I  II  1  \\  I.  ii.  219  seq. 


174  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

not  the  details,  but  the  proportions  of  actual  life, 
the  nearer  the  imagination  of  its  maker  approaches 
in  its  scheme  the  divine  imagination  which  has 
made  our  infinitely  mysterious  world,  the  more  end- 
lessly suggestive  that  work  of  art  must  always  be. 
To  the  artist,  however,  all  this  meaning  is  often  as 
strange  as  to  one  who  meets  for  the  first  time  the 
work  in  which  it  lies  implied.  What  the  artist  knows 
is  often  no  more  than  a  blind  conviction  that  thus, 
and  not  otherwise,  the  mood  which  possesses  him 
must  be  expressed.  Those  who  find  in  the  great 
artists  consciously  dogmatic  philosophers  are  gener- 
ally those  who  are  least  artists  themselves. 

In  Henry  IV.  we  have  sought  out  traits  which,  more 
than  probably,  Shakspere  himself  never  realized. 
What  he  must  surely  have  realized  need  have  been  no 
more  than  this :  Setting  to  work  at  a  stage-play,  of 
the  old  chronicle-history  school,  he  found  his  power  of 
creative  imagination  so  spontaneously  alert  that  by  the 
mere  process  of  letting  his  characters  do  and  say  what 
they  inevitably  would,  he  made  the  most  successful 
chronicle-history  which  had  as  yet  appeared  on  the 
English  stage.  That  he  had  done  more,  —  that  he  had 
changed  chronicle-history  into  historical  fiction,  and 
that  he  had  created  characters  which  should  become 
the  household  words  of  the  world,  —  he  need  never 
have  guessed.  A  cool  study  of  the  play  as  it  stands 
makes  this  opinion  the  most  probable.  The  Second 
Part  seems  more  hasty  than  the  first;  it  was  very 
likely  hastily  made  to  meet  a  popular  demand  which 


THE   MERRY   WIVES  OF   WINDSOR  175 

the  First  had  excited.  Nowadays,  too,  as  we  have  seen, 
both  parts  so  abound  with  the  obsolete  conventions  of 
chronicle-history  that  they  would  surely  act  ill.  As 
stage-plays,  then,  —  and  for  stage-plays  Shakspere 
surely  meant  them,  —  they  are  things  of  the  past.  So 
constantly  vital  is  the  imagination  which  pervades 
them,  however,  that  as  readers  we  of  later  days  never 
think  of  the  dead  conventions  at  all.  We  accept  them 
for  just  what  they  are,  —  only  means  of  expression  ; 
by  their  means  we  come  face  to  face  with  the  imagi- 
native conceptions  of  a  master's  mind.  In  our  sense 
of  the  ultimate  human  plausibility  of  these  conceptions, 
the  fruit  of  a  union  between  creative  imagination  and 
a  solid  basis  of  historical  fact,  we  properly  lose  all 
sense  of  the  means  by  which  this  end  is  wrought. 


X.    The  Merry  Wives  op  Windsor. 

[The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  was  entered  in  the  Stationers'  Regis- 
ter on  January  18th,  1602.  It  was  published,  in  a  very  imperfect 
quarto,  during  the  same  year.  The  relation  of  this  quarto  to  tiie  final 
version  of  the  play  has  been  much  discussed ;  probably,  though  it 
professes  to  be  a  work  of  Shakspere  as  it  was  performed  "  before  her 
Majestic,"  it  is  pirated  and  incomplete.  There  was  another  quarto  in 
1619.  The  tradition  that  the  play  was  written  in  a  fortnight  at  the 
express  command  of  the  Queen,  who  desired  to  see  Falstaff  in  love, 
cannot  be  traced  beyond  1702.  Nor  can  the  comparative  chronology 
of  this  play  and  Henry  V.  be  definitely  settled.  Mr.  Fleay  believes  the 
Merry  Wives  to  be  a  revision  of  an  old  play  called  the  Jealous  Comedy. 

The  plot  appears  to  be  based  on  certain  novels  translated  from  the 
Italian,  to  be  found  in  Hazlitt's  iihakespeare's  Library. 

A  conjectural  date,  commonly  accepted,  is  1598  or  1599.] 


176  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

Whatever  the  origin  of  the  Merry  Wives  of  Wind- 
sor, and  whatever  the  history  of  its  final  text,  the  play 
is  clearly  related  to  both  Henry  IV.  and  Henry  V. 
On  the  titlepage  of  the  quarto  this  fact  appears  at  a 
glance  :  — 

"  A  Most  pleasaunt  and  excellent  conceited  Comedie,  of  Syr 
John  Falstaffe,  and  the  merrie  Wives  of  Windsor.  Eutermixed 
with  sundrie  variable  and  pleasing  humors,  of  .  .  Justice  ShM.1- 
low,  .  .  With  the  swaggering  vaine  of  Auncient  Pistoll,  and 
Corporal!  Nym." 

Falstaff,  of  course,  appears  in  both  parts  of  Henry 
IV.  ;  Shallow  and  Pistol  in  the  Second  Part ;  Pistol 
again,  and  Nym,  in  Henry  V.  The  conclusion  that 
the  Merry  Wii-es  must  therefore  be  subsequent  to 
Henry  V.,  however,  is  not  necessary  ;  for  as  Henry  V. 
was  certainly  published  in  1600,  two  years  before 
the  quarto  of  the  Merry  Wives,  the  mention  of  Nym 
on  this  titlepage  may  merely  be  a  reference  to  the 
general  popularity  of  the  character.  Which  version 
of  Nym  was  first  written,  nobody  can  tell.  The  one 
thing  of  which  we  may  feel  sure  is  that  all  these 
characters  were  popular. 

Accordingly  there  has  now  and  again  been  effort 
seriously  to  identify  the  personages  in  the  Merry 
Wives  of  Windsor  with  those  who  bear  the  same 
names  in  the  chronicle-histories.  This  effort  has 
met  with  small  success.  While  Falstaff,  and  Bar- 
dolph,  and  the  Hostess,  and  Pistol,  and  the  rest  re- 
main the  same  people  in  scene  after  scene  of  Henry 
IV.  and    Henry    F".,   they    seem    somehow    different 


THE   MEKKY   WIVES   OF    WINDSOR  177 

•11  the  Merry  Wives.  The  truth  is  probably  that,  as 
they  appear  in  this  jolly  comedy,  they  are  identical 
with  their  other  selves  only  in  a  very  general  way, 
which  freshly  emphasizes  the  archaism  of  Shakspere's 
theatre.  Nowadays,  when  Thackeray,  or  Balzac,  or 
Anthony  Trollope  introduces  in  one  book  a  character 
which  has  appeared  in  another,  we  expect  to  find  the 
various  aspects  of  the  character  consistent ;  each 
imasrinarv  individual  is  assumed  to  have  the  same 
sort  of  identity  which  real  people  have.  In  liter- 
ature of  an  older  kind,  on  the  other  hand,  there  are 
what  we  may  call  generic  personages :  the  Harlequin 
and  the  Pantaloon  of  pantomime,  for  example ;  the 
Sganarelle  of  Molifere  ;  the  Lisette  and  Frontin  of 
Eighteenth  Century  comedy ;  the  Vice  of  the  old 
English  Moralities.  Wherever  these  personages  ap- 
pear, their  make-up  is  the  same,  and  so  are  their 
general  traits.  Over  and  over  again,  however,  they 
appear,  under  incompatible  circumstances  ;  and  all 
one  ever  expects  is  that  in  any  given  play,  or  what 
else,  the  personage  shall  be  for  the  moment  consist- 
ent. It  is  in  this  old,  conventional  way,  rather  than  in 
the  modern,  literal  sense,  that  the  personages  of  the 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  are  identical  with  those  of  the 
chronicle-histories.  Their  identity  is  one  of  type,  of 
aspect,  of  name,  not  of  history  ;  it  is  an  identity  which 
belongs  to  a  far  earlier  period  of  serious  literature  than 
our  own.  Nowadays  one  finds  such  types  chiefly  in  the 
detectives  and  the  desperadoes  of  penny  dreadfuls. 
This  generic  quality  of  the  characters  in  the  Merry 

12.  , 


178  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

Wives  of  Windsor  is  somewhat  obscured  by  their 
decided  individuality,  by  the  vigorous  humor  of  their 
conception,  and  by  the  thoroughly  English  quality  of 
their  environment.  To  take  a  single  example,  the 
school-boy  who  makes  a  mess  of  his  Latin  grammar  ^ 
is  a  perennially  funny  sketch  of  adolescent  English- 
speaking  flightiness :  whoever  has  had  pupils  must 
always  relish  it.  The  way  in  which  the  oddities  of 
foreign  speech  are  burlesqued,  too,  in  Sir  Hugh  Evans 
and  Doctor  Caius,^  makes  the  other  personages 
seem  the  more  English  by  contrast.  This  solitary 
comedy  in  which  Shakspere  lays  his  scene  in  England, 
seems  as  thoroughly  national  as  any  of  the  chronicle- 
histories.  True  to  English  life  in  so  many  details, 
then,  and  with  characters  as  vital  and  as  jolly  in  con- 
ception —  for  all  their  extravagance  —  as  anything  we 
have  met  in  comedy,  the  Merry  Wives  always  seems 
peculiarly  English. 

Very  clearly,  however,  when  we  stop  to  consider 
the  swift,  intricate,  amusing  plot,  we  find  there  several 
traits  which  are  not  English  at  all.  In  the  first  place, 
the  general  scheme  of  the  plot  is  conventionally  Italian, 
and  the  underlying  assumption — that  an  attempt  at 
seduction  is  capital  fun  —  is  far  more  congenial  to 
Continental  than  to  plain  English  ways  of  thought. 
In  the  second  place,  the  whole  action  tends  toward  the 
masque  of  the  fairies  in  the  fifth  act,  itself  at  once  a 
revival  of  the  device  which  had  already  proved  effec- 
tive in  Lovers  Labour'' s  Lost  and  in  the  Midsummer 

1  IV.  i.  «  E.g.  III.  i. 


THE  MERRY  WIVES  OF   WINDSOR  179 

Night^s  Bream,  an  admirable  little  type  of  what  the 
Elizabethan  masque  was,  and  a  dramatic  convention 
as  remote  from  real  English  life  as  is  the  ballet  of  the 
modern  stage.  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  in  short, 
is  not  really  English  at  all ;  it  is  rather  a  vigorous 
translation  into  English  terms  of  an  essentially  for- 
eign conception,  accomplished  with  a  skill  rivalled 
only  in  Box  and  Cox,  —  perhaps  the  one  modern 
adaptation  from  the  French  which  does  not  betray 
its  foreign  origin. 

As  a  broadly  humorous  presentation  of  convention- 
alized characters,  conducting  themselves  —  for  all  the 
English  flavor  of  their  environment  —  in  a  manner 
substantially  agreeable  rather  to  Continental  than  to 
English  ideas,  the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  seems  a  far 
less  serious  work  than  either  Henry  IV.  or  the  riper 
comedies  and  tragedy  which  have  preceded.  It  may  be 
taken,  to  be  sure,  a  little  more  seriously  than  we  have 
as  yet  taken  it.  For  one  thing,  in  spite  of  considerable 
disguise  and  confusion  of  identity,  the  stock  devices  of 
the  older  comedy,  the  fun  here  turns  chiefly  on  an 
equally  lasting  and  far  more  human  device,  —  on  the 
self-deception  of  the  fatuous  Falstaff,  and  of  the  jealous 
Ford.  Self-deception,  as  funny  a  thing  as  mistaken 
identitv,  has  its  roots  not  in  the  accidents  but  in  the 
essential  weakness  of  human  nature  ;  we  shall  find  it 
later  the  chief  comic  motive  of  Shakspere,  and  later 
still  a  tragic  one,  too.  In  the  second  place,  the  main 
situation  of  the  plot  here  —  the  effort  of  a  man  of 
rank  to  seduce  the  wives  of  plain  citizens  —  was  used 


180  WILLIAM    SHAKSPERE 

by  other  Elizabethan  dramatists  ;  but  ahnost  always 
to  the  discredit  of  the  citizens.  Middleton's  Chaste 
Maid  in  Cheapside  will  serve  to  illustrate'  the  regular 
treatment  of  the  situation.  In  the  Merry  Wives  of 
Windsor,  as  distinctly  as  in  the  Marriage  of  Figaro, 
the  gentleman  gets  the  worst  of  it.  One  can  hardly 
believe,  however,  that  this  jolly,  off-hand  play  is  funda- 
mentally, like  that  of  Beaumarchais,  a  serious  satire. 

The  most  reasonable  view  of  the  Merry  Wives  of 
Windsor,  perhaps,  is  that  which  groups  it  with  the 
Taming  of  the  Shrew.  In  substance  not  artistically 
serious,  not  instinct  —  like  the  Midsummer  NighVs 
Dream  or  the  Merchant  of  Venice  —  with  definite 
artistic  motive,  it  differs  from  the  earliest  comedies  by 
being  in  treatment  not  experimental  but  masterly. 
The  man  who  wrote  it  thoroughly  knew  his  trade. 
To  all  appearances,  it  belongs,  in  Shakspere's  work, 
to  the  period  when,  by  an  unparalleled  feat  of  creative 
imagination,  he  developed  the  old  chronicle-history 
into  permanently  plausible  historical  fiction.  If  we 
regard  it  as  the  comparatively  thoughtless  side-work 
of  a  moment  when  his  full  energy  was  busy  elsewhere, 
we  shall  understand  it  best. 


XL   Henry  V. 

[Henry  V.,  together  with  three  other  plays,  was  entered  in  the 
Stationers'  Register  on  August  4th,  1 600,  with  a  note  that  all  four  were 
"to  be  staied."  Quite  what  this  note  means  nobodj  has  settled. 
Henry  V.  appeared  in  a  very  imperfect  form  in    1600.     There  were 


HENRY  V  181 

other  imperfect  quartos  in  1602  and  1608.  The  full  text,  as  we  have  it, 
first  appeared  in  the  folio  of  1623. 

The  sources  of  the  play  are  identical  with  those  of  Henry  IV. 

From  the  fact  that  Meres,  who  mentioned  Henry  IV.  in  1598,  did 
not  mention  Henri/  V.,  it  has  been  inferred  that  Henry  V.  is  subse- 
quent to  1598.  As  it  was  published  in  1600,  a  reasonable  date  for  it 
seems  1599.  This  is  confirmed  by  lines  29-34  of  the  Prologue  to  Act  V., 
which  apparently  refer  to  the  expedition  of  Essex  to  Ireland,  — 
15  April-28  September,  1599.] 

Identical  in  origin  with  Henry  IV.,  and  so  far  as 
the  actually  historical  scenes  go  with  Richard  II., 
too,  Henry  V.  differs  from  both.  It  certainly  lacks 
the  poetic  completeness  of  Richard  IL,  and  just  as 
certainly  the  inevitable  plausibility  of  Henry  IV. 
This  may  be  partly  due  to  the  accic^ent  that  this  play 
deals  particularly  with  the  battle  of  Agincourt,  which 
in  Elizabeth's  time  preserved  such  pre-eminence  of 
patriotic  tradition  as  in  the  last  century  surrounded 
the  name  of  Blenheim,  and  in  our  own  time  still  sur- 
rounds the  names  of  Trafalgar  and  of  Waterloo.^ 
Whoever  should  deal  with  Agincourt  in  1599  could 
not  help  trying  to  produce  a  patriotic  effect. 

A  mere  effort  to  produce  a  patriotic  effect,  dramati- 
cally conceived,  however,  would  not  necessarily  have 
resulted  in  just  such  an  effect  as  that  of  Henry  V. 
Somehow,  whether  one  see  the  play  or  read  it,  one  is 
conscious  of  a  strongly  hortatory  vein  throughout.  To 
infer  from  this  that  the  writer  was  a  deliberate  and 

*  See  particularly  Drayton's  ballad  -.  — 
*'  Fair  stood  the  wind  for  France,"  etc. 
This  was  the  model  for  Tennyson's  "  Charge  of  the  Six  Hundred." 


182  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

sincere  preacher  is  not  necessary ;  one  can  hardly 
avoid  the  inference,  however,  that,  as  an  artist,  the 
writer  of  Henry  V.  had  chiefly  in  mind  some  other  pur- 
pose than  a  purely  dramatic.  From  beginning  to  end 
he  seems  trying  not  merely  to  translate  historical  mate- 
rial into  effective  dramatic  terms,  but  also  to  present 
that  material  in  such  a  manner  that  his  audience  shall 
leave  the  theatre  more  enthusiastically  English  than 
they  entered  it.  As  a  man  he  need  not  therefore  have 
been  particularly  patriotic ;  as  an  artist  he  seems  cer- 
tainly to  have  been  sensitive  to  the  hortatory  nature 
of  his  subject. 

In  that  case,  we  may  see  at  once  why  the  effect  of 
Henry  V.  is  often  less  satisfactory  than  that  of  the 
earlier  chronicle-histories.  Hortatory  purpose  is  as 
legitimate  for  an  artist  as  any  other.  The  most  fit- 
ting vehicle  for  such  a  purpose,  however,  is  certainly 
the  vehicle  which  involves  the  least  possible  suggestion 
of  artificiality  or  insincerity.  Sermons  in  prose,  pas- 
sionate lyrics  in  verse,  are  the  normal  forms  of  horta- 
tory literature.  The  stage,  on  the  other  hand,  can 
never  free  itself  from  an  aspect  of  artificiality.  When 
you  see  a  play,  however  much  it  move  you,  there  is 
no  avoiding  knowledge  that  the  actors  are  pretend- 
ing to  be  somebody  else  than  themselves.  All  this, 
though  perfectly  legitimate  in  their  art,  is  fatal  to 
any  lasting  personal  faith  in  their  hortatory  utter- 
ances. If  the  stage  be  a  teacher,  it  may  teach  only 
by  parable. 

An  indication  that  the  trouble  with  Henry  V.  lies 


HENRY  V  183 

in  this  incompatibility  of  artistic  purpose  and  artistic 
vehicle  may  be  found  in  the  Chorus  :  ^  — 

"  Pardon,  gentles  all, 
The  flat  unraised  spirits  that  have  dared 
On  this  unworthy  scaffold  to  bring  forth 
So  great  an  object  :  can  this  cockpit  hold 
The  vasty  fields  of  France  ?  or  may  we  cram 
Within  this  wooden  O  the  very  casques 
That  did  afl"right  the  air  at  Agincourt  ? 
O,  pardon  !  since  a  crooked  figure  may 
Attest  in  little  place  a  million  ; 
And  let  us,  ciphers  to  this  great  accompt, 
On  your  imaginary  forces  work." 

Such  lines  as  these,  which  fairly  typify  the  senti- 
ment of  all  six  utterances  of  the  Chorus,  really 
show  as  acute  a  sense  of  the  material  limitations 
surrounding  an  Elizabethan  play  as  is  shown  by  Ben 
Jonson's  well-known  prologue  to  Every  Man  in  His 
Humour?  In  this  Jonson  declares  that  as  a  dramatic 
writer  he  disdains  to 

"  purchase  your  delight  at  such  a  rate 
As,  for  it,  he  himself  must  justly  hate  : 
To  make  a  child,  now  swadled,  to  proceede 
Man,  and  then  shoote  up,  in  one  beard,  and  weede, 
Past  threescore  years  :  or  with  three  rustie  swords. 
And  helpe  of  some  few  foot-and-halfe-foote  words, 
Fight  over  Yorke^  and  Lancaster's  long  jarres  : 
And  in  the  tyring-house  bring  wounds,  to  scarres. 

^  Prologue  to  Art  I.  8  seq. 

2  This  play  was  acted  in  1598.    The  earliest  publication  of  the  pro- 
logue, however,  was  in  1616.     Cf.  p.  14. 


184  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

He  rather  prayes,  you  will  be  pleas'd  to  see 

One  such,  today  as  other  playes  should  be ; 

When  neither  Chorus  wafts  you  ore  the  seas ; 

Nor  creaking  throne  comes  downe,  the  boys  to  please." 

The  difference  between  these  two  comments  on 
stage-conditions  —  comments  which  if  the  prologue 
to  Every  Man  in  His  Humour  be  as  old  as  the  play 
are  almost  exactly  contemporary  —  lies  in  the  fact 
that  while  Jonson  condemns  the  limitations  of  his 
theatre,  Shakspere  laments  them.  Generally,  with 
purely  dramatic  purpose,  Shakspere  appears  frankly  to 
accept  the  conditions  under  which  he  must  work.  In 
Henry  V.,  he  professes  throughout  that  they  bother 
him.  So  far  as  it  goes,  this  very  fact  tends  to  show 
that  his  artistic  purpose  was  not  merely  dramatic. 

The  general  impression  made  by  the  play  confirms 
this  opinion.  From  beginning  to  end,  Henry  himself 
is  always  kept  heroically  in  view ;  he  is  presented  in 
the  exasperating  way  which  makes  so  ineffectual  the 
efforts  of  moralizing  scribblers,  dear  to  Sunday-school 
librarians.  Of  course  he  is  not  such  an  emasculate, 
repulsive  ideal  as  you  find  in  the  group  headed  by  Mr. 
Barlow,  and  by  Jonas,  the  hired  man  of  the  Hollidays. 
Changing  what  terms  must  be  changed,  however,  he  is 
not  so  foreign  to  them  as  he  seems  ;  he  is  rather  a  moral 
hero  than  a  dramatic.  For  all  his  humanity,  you  feel 
him  rather  an  ideal  than  a  man ;  and  an  ideal,  in  virtues 
and  vices  alike,  rather  British  than  human.  He  has 
sown  conventional  wild  oats ;  he  has  reformed ;  he  is 
bluff,  simple-hearted,  not  keenly  intellectual,  coura- 


HENRY   V  185 

geous,  above  all  a  man  more  of  action  than  of  words. 
The  Shakspere  who  propounds  such  an  ideal,  then, 
is  limited  more  profoundly  than  by  mere  stage  con- 
ditions ;  throughout  his  conception  he  reveals  the 
peculiar  limitation  of  sympathy  which  still  marks  a 
typical  Englishman.  In  the  honestly  canting  moods 
which  we  of  America  inherit  with  our  British  blood 
we  gravely  admire  Henry  V.  because  we  feel  sure 
that  we  ought  to.  In  more  normally  human  moods, 
most  of  us  would  be  forced  to  confess  that,  at  least 
as  a  play,  Henry  V.  is  tiresome. 

If  it  be  a  dull  play,  however,  it  is  just  as  surely  the 
dull  play  of  a  great  artist ;  it  is  full  of  excellent  detail. 
In  the  distinctly  historical  parts,  the  excellent  detail 
is  chiefly  rhetorical ;  as  such,  it  is  almost  beyond 
praise.  The  eloquence  of  Henry's  great  speeches  ^ 
everybody  recognizes.  Perhaps  an  even  more  notable 
example  of  Shakspere's  now  consummate  mastery  of 
style  may  be  found  in  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury's 
exposition  of  the  Salic  law.^  The  passage  —  one  of 
the  kind  which  sometimes  makes  superficial  readers 
marvel  at  the  learning  of  Shakspere  —  actually  states 
the  law  in  question,  along  with  many  historical  details, 
about  as  compactly  as  any  lawyer  could  have  stated  it 
under  Queen  Elizabeth.  Besides  this,  the  passage  is  an, 
admirable  example  of  that  very  difficult  kind  of  sono- 
rous declamation  which  depends  for  its  effect  on  the 

>  I.  ii.  2.'J9  seq.  ;  II.  ii.  79  seq^;  IIL  i- ;   IV.   i.  247   seq.,  306  geq, ; 
IV.  iii.  20  seq. ;  etc. 
*  L  ii.  33  wq, 


186  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

skilful  use  of  proper  names.  A  glance  at  Holinshed  ^ 
will  show  where  all  the  learning  came  from,  and  all 
the  proper  names.  Compare,  for  example,  these  two 
versions  of  the  historical  statement  made  in  lines 
69-71.     Holinshed  writes  :  — 

*'Hugh  Capet,  who  usurped  the  crowne  upon  Charles 
duke  of  Loraine,  the  sole  heir  male  of  the  line  and  stock  of 
Charles  the  great ;  " 

and  here  is  Shakspere's  rendering  of  the  words  :  — 

"  Hugh  Capet  also,  who  usurp'd  the  crown 
Of  Charles  the  duke  of  Lorraine,  sole  heir  male 
Of  the  true  line  and  stock  of  Charles  the  Great." 

The  art  by  which  a  dull  legal  statement  is  converted 
into  a  piece  of  vigorously  sounding  rhetoric  is  all 
that  Shakspere  has  added.  The  changes  of  phrase  are 
incredibly  slight,  incalculably  effective.  They  mark 
as  clearly  as  any  single  passage  in  Shakspere  the 
moment  when  his  command  of  style  was  perhaps  most 
easily  masterly ;  for  they  translate  the  original  prose 
into  a  blank  verse  which  is  free  alike  from  the  monot- 
ony and  the  excessive  ingenuity  of  his  earlier  days, 
and  from  the  condensation,  the  lax  freedom,  and  the 
overwhelming  thought  of  his  later. 

The  excellence  of  detail  in  the  comic  scenes  of 
Henry  V.  is  perhaps  more  notable  still.  While  in 
substance  all  the  comic  characters  are  what  an  Eliza- 
bethan would  have  called  "  humourous,"  and  what  we 

*  The  passage  in  qacBtion  is  conveniently  accessible  in  Rolfe's  edition 
of  Henry  V. 


HENRY  V  187 

should  now  call  "  eccentric  comedy,"  they  are  almost 
all  human,  too.  Comic  dialect,  to  be  sure,  already 
proved  effective  in  the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  is 
repeated  in  the  speeches  of  Jamy,  Macmorris,  and 
Fluellen ;  ^  repeated,  too,  is  the  broad  burlesque  on 
the  excesses  of  Elizabethan  ranting  which  pervades 
the  speech  of  Pistol  everywhere.  For  all  this  conven- 
tional humor,  however,  one  grows  to  feel  of  the  comic 
characters  in  Henry  F.,  as  of  all  the  characters  in 
Henry  IK,  that  these  are  real  people. 

Perhaps  the  most  subtly  artistic  touches  of  all  are 
the  repeated  ones,  each  in  itself  slight,  by  which  the 
crew  of  Falstaff  are  completely  removed  from  any 
relation  with  the  King  himself.  To  appreciate  this 
we  must  revert  for  a  moment  to  Henry  IV.  Com- 
monly one  thinks  of  Falstaff,  Prince  Hal,  and  the 
rowdies  of  the  Eastcheap  Tavern,  as  a  constantly  inter- 
mingled company.  A  little  scrutiny  shows  that  the 
Prince  is  actually  familiar  with  only  two, —  Poins  and 
Falstaff  himself.  Gadshill,  the  regular  highwavman, 
appears  only  in  the  First  Part  of  Henry  IV. ;  Poins 
disappears  with  the  second  scene  of  tlie  Second  Part, 
—  the  scene  in  which  we  first  see  Pistol ;  Pistol  and 
the  Prince  never  meet  at  all  in  Henry  IV. ;  and  Bar- 
dolph  is  throughout  a  person  of  lower  rank,  Falstaff's 
attendant,  The  only  character  with  whom  a  violent 
break  is  necessary  proves  to  be  Falstaff.  However  he 
may  morally  deserve  his  fate,  one  cannot  help  feeling 
that  the  King  cruelly  kills  his  heart.     Clearly,  then, 

^  See  III.  ii.  79  seq. 


188  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

to  have  introduced  Falstaff  in  a  play  whose  artistic 
object  is  the  apotheosis  of  Henry  would  have  been  a 
blunder ;  and  to  have  put  his  death  on  the  stage,  how- 
ever agreeable  to  the  theatrical  custom  of  the  time, 
could  not  have  been  less  than  shocking.  To  tell  the 
story  of  his  last  hours  as  Shakspere  has  told  it  is  to 
do  a  thing  which  no  writer  ever  surpassed.  If  one 
were  asked  to  name  a  single  scene  where  Shakspere 
shows  himself  supreme,  one  would  often  be  disposed  to 
name  the  third  scene  of  the  second  act  of  Henry  V. 
Falstaff  once  removed,  the  fate  of  the  others  comes 
with  no  disturbing  sense  of  the  King's  breach  of  friend- 
ship. How  Shakspere  managed  it,  a  single  example 
will  suggest.     In  Holinshed  we  are  told  that 

"  a  soulJiour  tooke  a  pix  out  ot  a  church,  for  which  he  was  appre- 
hended, &  the  king  not  once  remooved  till  the  box  was  restored, 
and  the  offendor  strangled." 

This  incident  Shakspere  has  developed  into  our  last 
glimpse  of  Bardolph,  involving  the  quarrel  between 
Pistol  and  Fluellen,'  on  which  turns  so  much  of  the 
comic  action  towards  the  end  of  Henry  V.  And  so, 
by  touch  after  touch,  none  of  which  we  feel  at  the 
moment,  the  King  at  last  is  left  alone  in  his  glory. 
In  the  wonderful  third  scene  of  the  second  act  there 
is  a  famous  phrase  which  illustrates  the  condition  in 
which  Shakspere's  text  has  come  down  to  us.^ 

"  For  after  I  saw  him  fumble  with  the  sheets,"  says  the  Hostess, 
"  and  play  with  flowers  and  smile  upon  his  fingers'  ends,  I  knew 
there  was  but  one  way  ;  for  his  nose  was  as  sharp  as  a  pen,  and 
a'  babbled  of  green  fields." 

1  III.  vi.  21-62.  *  Line*  14-18 


HENRY  V  189 

In  the  folio  this  last  phrase  appears  in  a  form  which  for 
above  a  century  was  unintelligible,  — "a  Table  of  green 
fields."  Theobald  suggested  "  a'  babbled  "  instead  of 
"  a  Table."  The  suggestion  was  in  such  harmony 
with  the  spirit  of  the  scene  that  it  has  been  unani- 
mously accepted.  Whether  Shakspere  actually  wrote 
it,  however,  no  one  can  ever  be  sure. 

What  one  can  be  sure  of,  on  the  other  hand,  is  that 
Shakspere  never  saw  a  published  copy  of  Henry  V. 
which  compared  either  in  fulness  or  in  accuracy  with 
the  folio  of  1623.  Such  serious  discussion  of  his  art 
and  his  purposes  as  we  have  just  emerged  from  is  apt 
to  mislead.  To  think  of  Shakspere's  plays  except  as 
literature  is  a  bit  hard  ;  yet  nothing  is  more  certain 
than  that  even  so  serious  a  work  as  Henry  V.  could 
never  have  appeared  to  him  as  anything  but  a  play 
made  for  the  actual  stage.  In  our  study  of  his  artis- 
tic development,  then,  we  must  finally  regard  it  as  a 
stage  play. 

Thus  it  takes  its  place  as  chronologically  the  last 
of  the  chronicle-histories,  and  in  the  whole  scheme  of 
chronicle-history  as  the  link  between  the  series  which 
begins  with  Richard  II.  and  that  which  ends  with 
Richard  HI.  In  some  details  of  style  superior  to  any 
of  the  others  —  for  nowhere  is  Shakspere's  declama- 
tory verse  more  sim})ly,  fluently  sonorous ;  and  no- 
where are  his  comic  scenes  more  skilfully  touched,  or 
much  better  phrased  in  terms  both  of  speech  and  of 
action  —  it  somehow  lacks  both  the  completeness  of 
Richard  II.  and  the  pervasive  plausibility  of  Henry 


190  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

IV.  In  other  words,  while  Henri/  IV.  showed  a  de- 
velopment of  chronicle-history  analogous  to  that  of 
comedy  in  the  Midsummer  NigMs  Dream.,  or  that  of 
tragedy  in  Romeo  and  Juliet^  Henry  V.  shows  rather 
a  stagnation  than  an  advance  of  creative  energy. 
Compared  with  the  plays  we  have  lately  considered 
it  lacks  spontaneity,  it  grows  conscious.  If  it  stood 
by  itself,  we  might  almost  infer  that  the  artistic  im- 
pulse which  has  underlain  Shakspere's  work  ever 
since  the  Midsummer  Niglifs  Dream  was  beginning 
to  flag.  To  correct  this  inference  we  must  look  at 
other  work  attributed  to  the  same  time.  As  more 
than  once  before,  a  comparative  weakness  in  one  kind 
of  writing  will  prove  to  indicate  no  more  than  that 
Shakspere's  best  energies  were  devoted  to  another. 


XII.    Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

[^Much  Ado  About  Nothing  was  another  of  the  plays  entered  "  to  be 
staled  "  in  the  Stationers'  Register,  on  August  4th,  1600.  It  was  again 
entered,  unconditionally,  on  August  23rd,  1600;  and  was  published  in 
a  very  complete  quarto  during  the  same  year. 

The  sources  of  the  serious  plot  —  the  loves  of  Hero  and  Claudio  — 
are  to  be  found  in  Ariosto  and  in  Bandello.  In  the  Fourth  Canto  of 
the  Second  Book  of  the  Faerie  Qneene,  Spenser  tells  the  story  senti- 
mentally. The  comic  parts  of  the  play,  including  Benedick,  Beatrice, 
and  Dogberry,  appear  to  be  of  Shakspere's  invention. 

As  the  play  was  not  mentioned  by  Meres  in  1598,  and  existed  in  1600, 
it  may,  with  some  confidence,  be  assigned  to  1599.  Mr.  Fleay,  however, 
eagerly  believes  it  to  be  a  revision  of  the  Lore's  Labour's  Won,  men 
tioned  by  Meres.     This  view  is  not  generally  accepted.] 


MUCH    ADO   ABOUT   NOTHING  191 

In  the  sense  that  it  is  a  permanently  significant 
work  of  art,  whose  maker  seems  thoroughly  to  have 
known  both  what  he  wished  to  do  and  how  to  do  it, 
Much  Ado  About  Nothing  is  a  masterpiece.  Its  total 
effect  is  as  plausible  as  that  of  Henry  IV.  ;  forgetting 
the  means  by  which  characters  and  incidents  are  pre- 
sented, one  instinctively  thinks  of  them  as  real.  The 
plot  has  definite  unity ;  the  characters,  all  of  first-rate 
individuality,  live  in  a  world  which  seems  actual,  and 
constantly  express  themselves  in  a  style  unsurpassed 
for  firmness  and  decision.  All  this  technical  power, 
too,  is  used  here  for  a  more  definite  artistic  purpose 
than  has  generally  been  perceptible  in  the  earlier 
work  of  Shakspere;  the  mood  which  underlies  Much 
Ado  About  Nothing,  we  shall  see  by  and  by  to  be 
more  profound  than  the  moods  we  have  met  hitherto. 
Finally,  whether  you  see  the  play  or  read  it,  you  can 
hardly  avoid  feeling  that  it  has  the  inevitable  ease  of 
mastery. 

Off-hand,  such  ease  and  completeness  in  any  work 
of  art  seem  inborn.  Nothing  is  further  from  one's 
instinctive  impression  than  the  real  truth,  that  they 
can  be  attained  only  by  years  of  preliminary  practice. 
We  have  already  followed  Shakspere's  career  long 
enough,  however,  to  assure  ourselves  that  Much  Ado 
About  Nothing  was  produced,  at  least  in  its  final  form, 
only  after  above  ten  years  of  patient  stage-craft.  Dur- 
ing these  years  he  had  thoroughly  learned  two  things  : 
first,  how  to  translate  into  effective  dramatic  terms 
the  crude  material  which  he  found   in  his  narrative 


192  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

sources;  and  secondly, how  to  repeat,  with  just  enough 
variation  to  make  the  repetition  welcome,  characters, 
scenes,  situations,  what  not,  which  in  previous  plays 
had  proved  dramatically  effective.  In  Much  Ado 
About  Nothing  he  shows  both  of  these  traits :  the 
story  of  Hero  and  Claudio,  which  is  really  the  core  of 
the  play,  he  presents  far  more  vividly  than  anybody 
else ;  and  by  way  of  contrast  and  amplification  he  adds 
to  it,  from  his  own  previous  stage-work,  the  story  and 
the  characters  of  Benedick,  Beatrice,  and  Dogberry. 
The  greater  vitality  of  these  has  perhaps  resulted,  after 
all,  in  a  distortion  of  the  effect  he  first  intended,  anal- 
ogous to  the  possible  distortion  of  Romeo  and  Juliet 
from  the  tale  of  feud  promised  in  the  prologue  to  the 
tragedy  of  youthful  love  known  to  us  all.  In  each 
play,  your  attention  ultimately  concentrates  elsewhere 
than  at  first  seemed  probable.  Each  alike,  however,  is 
masterly,  just  as  each  is  notable  for  the  firmness 
with  which  it  sets  forth  the  parts  of  itself  which  are 
peculiarly  Shakspere's.  In  this  case,  as  we  have  seen, 
the  parts  in  question  include  the  characters  of  Bene- 
dick, Beatrice,  and  Dogberry.  Under  the  names  of 
Biron,  Rosaline,  and  Dull,  Shakspere  had  already 
sketched  these  in  Love's  Labour's  Lost.  There  have 
been  glimpses  of  them  meanwhile,  too  ;  but  this  fact 
is  enough.  If  our  chronology  be  anywhere  near  right, 
the  interval  between  the  first  conception  of  these  char- 
acters and  their  final  presentation  in  Much  Ado  About 
Nothing  was  something  like  ten  years. 

Of  course  we  must  remember  that  Lovers  Labour '« 


MUCH    ADO   ABOUT   .NOTHING  193 

Lost^  as  we  have  it,  is  not  the  original  play  of  1589  or 
so,  but  a  revision  of  it  for  performance  at  court  in 
1597.  Whatever  alteration  of  phrase  and  finish  may 
then  have  been  made,  however,  we  felt  that  we  might 
fairly  assume  the  main  outline  and  the  chief  traits 
of  style  in  Lovers  Labour^ s  Lost  to  belong  to  the 
beginning  of  Shakspere's  career.  A  comparison  of 
Biron  and  Rosaline  with  Benedick  and  Beatrice  will 
strengthen  that  conclusion.  The  former  pair  seem  set 
forth  with  no  deeper  consciousness  of  their  value  than 
would  come  from  a  sense  of  the  undoubted  effect  their 
clever  tit  for  tat  must  make  on  an  audience.  Bene- 
dick and  Beatrice,  on  the  other  hand,  are  not  inde- 
pendent stage  characters ;  for  all  their  wit  and  sparkle, 
they  have  their  places  in  a  great,  coherent  comedy 
which,  in  its  entirety,  expresses  a  definite  view  of 
human  nature. 

In  this  view  of  human  nature  there  are  two  ele- 
ments. The  artist  who  conceived  such  a  work  as 
Much  Ado  About  Nothing  must  in  the  first  place  have 
been  keenly  sensitive  to  the  inexhaustible  power  of 
deceiving  themselves  possessed  by  human  beings. 
Benedick,  Beatrice,  Claudio,  Dogberry  alike  are  be- 
guiled by  intrinsic  weaknesses  of  nature  into  states  of 
mind  and  lines  of  conduct  whose  admirable  dramatic 
effect  depends  on  their  incompatibility  with  obvious 
facts  in  possession  of  omniscience  and  the  audi- 
ence. This  fundamental  understanding  of  a  human 
weakness,  however,  is  not  the  whole  story.     With  the 

help  of  a  little  deliberate  rascality,  the  weakness  in 

.13 


194  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

question  beguiles  the  wisest  and  the  wittiest  of  people 
into  a  situation  wliich  no  unaided  acts  of  theirs  could 
prevent  from  resulting  tragically.  What  does  prevent 
this  result  is  that,  by  mere  chance,  the  dullest,  stupid- 
est creatures  imaginable  happen  to  stumble  on  the 
real  facts.  In  thus  presenting  the  keenest  wit  as 
saved  from  destruction  only  by  the  blundering  of 
boors,  Shakspere  displays  a  sense  of  irony  lastingly 
true  to  human  experience. 

Self-deception,  the  first  of  these  traits,  we  met  in 
the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor.  By  itself  it  would  dis- 
tinguish these  two  comedies  from  the  earlier  ones, 
whose  fun  is  based  on  the  far  less  plausible  and  not 
deeply  significant,  though  perennially  amusing,  device 
of  mistaken  identity.  The  older  comedies  are  chiefly 
theatrical ;  these  become  human.  When  to  self-decep- 
tion is  added  the  sense  of  irony  which  pervades  3Iuch 
Ado  About  Nothing  we  are  face  to  face  with  another 
kind  of  literature  than  the  old.  The  old  was  inspired 
chiefly  by  observation  of  the  whims  of  audiences,  and 
by  skilful  observance  of  literary  and  theatrical  tradi- 
tion ;  this,  for  all  its  technical  skill,  seems  inspired 
rather  by  knowledge  of  human  nature. 

Technically,  at  the  same  time.  Much  Ado  About 
Nothing  displays  the  traits  to  which  we  are  already  ac- 
customed. The  vitality  of  creative  imagination  which 
enlivened  and  even  veiled  the  absurdities  of  the  Mid- 
summer NighVs  Dream  and  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  and 
which  brought  Henry  IV.  out  of  chronicle-history  into 
historical  fiction,  pervades  this  more  profound  play. 


MUCH   ADO   ABOUT  NOTHING  195 

The  constant  economy  of  needless  invention,  too, 
wliich  is  so  marked  a  trait  of  Shakspere,  appears  in 
various  ways.  We  have  already  touched  on  some  of 
the  obvious  relations  of  this  play  to  Love'' 8  Labour '« 
Lost  and  on  the  fact  that  its  motive  of  self-deception 
was  the  motive  also  of  the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor. 
Those  who  know  Shakspere  well  must  already  have 
remarked  that  self-deception  is  the  motive  of  much 
work  still  to  come,  —  of  the  misadventures  of  Mal- 
volio,  for  example,  of  the  jealousy  of  Othello  and  of 
Leontes,  of  the  infatuation  of  Lear.  They  must  have 
noticed,  too,  that  Don  John  comes  midway  between 
the  Aaron  of  Titus  Andronicus  and  lago.  Not  quite 
so  clearly,  perhaps,  they  may  have  observed  that  the 
loss  and  recovery  of  Hero  have  much  in  common  with 
the  situation  of  Emilia  in  the  Comedy  of  Errors  as 
well  as  with  that  of  Juliet ;  while  clearly  all  these  are 
by  and  by  to  be  revived  in  Thaisa  and  in  Hermione. 
One  might  thus  go  on  long. 

It  is  better  worth  our  while,  however,  to  consider 
the  trait  in  which  Much  Ado  About  Notliing  is  su- 
preme, —  the  wit  of  the  chief  personages.  Of  course 
the  humor  of  Dogberry  and  Verges,  despite  its 
breadth,  is  lastingly  funny  ;  but  certainly  it  is  not 
unique.  Elsewhere  in  Shakspere,  and  —  to  go  no 
further  —  in  Mrs.  Malaprop,  one  finds  plenty  like  it. 
The  equally  lasting  wit  of  Benedick  and  Beatrice,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  unsurpassed,  and  one  may  almost 
say  unrivalled,  in  English  Literature.  For  this  amaz- 
ing development  of  wit,  a  trait  which  at  first  thought 


196  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

seems  perhaps  the  most  spontaneous  in  all  human 
expression,  we  have  already  seen  causes.  From  the 
beginning  of  Elizabethan  Literature  whoever  had 
written  had  been  constantly  playing  on  words  and 
with  them.  Fantastically  extravagant  as  such  verbal 
quibbles  generally  were,  they  resulted  in  unsurpassed 
mastery  of  vocabulary.  Combine  such  mastery  of  vo- 
cabulary with  an  instinctive  sense  that  words  are  only 
the  symbols  of  actual  thoughts,  and  your  quibbler  or 
punster  becomes  a  wit  of  the  first  quality.  We  have 
seen  that  such  a  sense  of  the  identity  of  word  and 
thought  characterized  Shakspere  from  the  beginning. 
The  lasting  vitality  of  his  wit,  then,  as  well  as  of  his 
wisdom,  is  perhaps  traceable  to  the  insatiable  appe- 
tite for  novelty  of  phrase  which  pervaded  his  public. 
As  in  his  earlier  work,  so  even  in  Much  Ado  About 
Nothing  one  may  fairly  doubt  whether  the  man  him- 
self, accepting  his  temperament  among  the  normal 
conditions  of  life,  would  generally  have  distinguished 
between  his  own  efforts,  which  resulted  in  lasting  lit- 
erature, and  those  of  his  fellows,  which  resulted  chiefly 
in  ingenious  collocations  of  words.  Like  the  rest,  he 
probably  strove  merely  to  put  words  together  in  a 
fresh  way.  As  the  years  passed,  however,  he  grew 
less  and  less  able  to  conceive  a  word  as  distinct  from 
a  concept ;  by  1600,  then,  his  peculiar  trait  had  so 
developed  that,  by  merely  trying  to  make  his  phrases 
as  fresh  as  possible,  he  might  unwittingly  have  set 
forth  the  ultimate  wit,  and  the  profoundly  human 
characters  of  Benedick  and  Beatrice. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING      197 

For,  witty  as  they  are,  Benedick  and  Beatrice  are 
human  too.  One  thinks  of  tliein  generally  together, 
as  an  inseparable  pair,  equally  human,  equally  delight- 
ful. To  attempt  in  any  way  to  distinguish  between 
them,  then,  is  perhaps  fantastic.  On  the  whole,  how- 
ever, there  are  touches  in  the  character  of  Beatrice 
which  seem  to  mark  her  as  the  more  sympathetically 
conceived.  When  Hero  is  accused,  for  example,  her 
conduct  is  the  very  ideal  of  feminine  intensity.  Her 
first  outbreak,^  — 

"  Why,  how  now,  cousin  I  wherefore  sink  you  down  ? " 

may  best  be  read  as  an  exclamation  not  of 
terror  but  of  indignant  remonstrance.  Her  "  Kill 
Claudio !  "  2  so  much  admired  by  Mr.  Swinburne, 
is  more  in  keeping  with  that  conception.  Although 
these  speeches  have  no  gleam  of  wit,  they  are  better 
than  witty  ;  they  express  just  such  impulsive  purity  of 
nature  as  an  ideal  woman  should  possess.  This  heroic 
trait  of  Beatrice  arouses  Benedick  to  a  line  of  action 
which  in  turn  makes  him  heroic.  Ultimately  one 
grows  to  think  of  Much  Ado  About  Nothing  as  group- 
ing its  whole  story  about  the  heroine  Beatrice. 

To  guess  that  such  vitality  of  conception  was  in- 
spired by  a  living  model  is  to  start  on  an  endless 
round  of  conjecture.  One  may  safely  say,  however, 
that,  even  more  than  Juliet  or  Portia,  Beatrice  is  a 
real,  living  figure.  Coming  after  them,  then,  she  re- 
Teals  in  Shakspere  a  growing  sense  of  what  a  fascinat- 

1  IV.  i.  HI.  a  IV.  i.  291. 


198  AVILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

ing  woman  really  is,  or  rather  of  how  a  fascinating 
woman  presents  herself  to  a  worshipping  man.  Such 
a  man,  enthralled  by  the  outward  spell,  of  look,  of 
action,  of  speech,  instinctively  surrounds  it  with  imagi- 
nary graces  of  nature,  which  make  his  mistress  for  the 
moment  divine.  What  Beatrice  expresses  is  such  an 
ideal  of  womanhood  as  this, — womanhood  as  seen  by  a 
man  who  feels  all  its  charm,  who  is  not  yet  practised 
enough  to  know  its  vices,  who  has  not  yet  dreamed  of 
the  disenchantment  and  the  satiety  of  possession. 

Whatever  the  origin  of  Beatrice,  we  have  fair 
ground  for  believing  that  in  1599  Sliakspere  was  dis- 
posed to  idealize  character.  This  inclination  showed 
itself  in  his  heroic  treatment  of  Henry  V.  In  that 
play  he  failed  to  produce  a  satisfactory  effect,  partly 
because  there  his  ideal  was  a  bit  didactic,  and  partly 
because,  for  all  its  vigor,  the  play  did  not  seem  so 
alive  with  creative  imagination  as  those  which  had 
just  preceded.  Much  Ado  About  Nothing,  almost  cer- 
tainly of  the  same  year,  shows  us  why.  In  1599 
Shakspere's  creative  imagination,  diverted  once  more, 
left  chronicle-history  where  he  found  it ;  but  turning 
afresh  to  comedy,  carried  comedy  to  its  highest 
possible  point. 


AS  YOU   LIKE   IT  199 


XIII.    As  You  Like  It. 

[As  You  Like  It  was  entered,  along  with  the  two  preceding  plays, 
"tobestaied"  in  the  Stationers'  Register,  on  August  4th,  1600.  It 
was  not  printed  till  the  folio  of  162.3. 

Its  source  is  a  novel  by  Thomas  Lodge,  called  Rosalynde,  Euphuet 
Golden  Lef/arie,  etc.,  published  in  1590. 

From  the  circumstances  of  its  entry,  together  with  internal  evi- 
dence, such  as  the  quotation  of  a  line  from  Marlowe's  Hero  and  Lean- 
der}  published  in  1598,  its  date  has  generally  been  conjecturally  placed 
in  1599  or  1600.] 

As  You  Like  It^  beyond  question  among  the  most 
popular  of  Shakspere's  plays,  differs  from  Much 
Ado  About  Nothing  rather  in  substance  than  in  man- 
ner. Just  as  masterly,  just  as  far  from  experimental, 
it  is  distinctly  less  significant.  Much  Ado  About 
Nothing^  as  we  have  seen,  expresses  a  mood  which,  at 
any  period  of  history,  must  sometimes  possess  any 
thoughtful  observer  of  actual  life  ;  As  You  Like  It, 
for  all  its  delicate,  half-melancholy  sentiment,  is  in 
substance  purely  fantastic. 

Its  completely  fantastic  character,  to  be  sure,  is 
somewhat  concealed  by  the  art  with  which  the  play  is 
composed.  Like  the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  and 
the  Merchant  of  Venice^  it  begins  with  the  device  — 
very  probably  suggested  by  the  conventional  old  in- 
ductions—  of  presenting  a  scene  and  a  state  of  things 

1  in.  V.  83-.  and  see  p.  60. 


200  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

about  mid-way  between  real  life  and  the  impossible 
fantasies  into  which  it  must  lead  us.  In  this  case  the 
device  has  proved  so  generally  successful  that  no 
comment  on  As  Yoii  Like  It  is  more  frequent  than 
ardent  admiration  for  the  open-air  quality  of  the 
forest-scenes. 

To  declare  so  general  an  opinion  mistaken  would  be 
stupid ;  whoever  fails  to  share  it  might  better  lament 
his  own  lack  of  perception.  Unquestionably,  how- 
ever, there  are  moods  in  which  the  rhapsodic  delight 
conventionally  felt  in  the  forest  breezes  of  Arden  sets 
one  to  doubting  whether  those  who  feel  it  have  ever 
been  much  nearer  nature  than  the  foot-lights.  In 
such  moods,  Arden  seems  as  fantastically  artificial  as 
the  background  of  any  pseudo-classic  eclogue  or  oper- 
atic ballet ;  and  wonderful  chiefly  because  everybody 
does  not  instantly  perceive  its  trees  and  stones  and 
running  brooks  to  be  paint  and  pasteboard.  What 
Shakspere  has  really  done  in  As  You  Like  It  is  to 
adapt  for  the  stage  a  kind  of  story  essentially  difiFer- 
ent  either  from  the  statements  of  fact  which  gave 
him  material  for  his  chronicle-histories,  or  from  the 
rather  bald  plots  of  old  Italian  novels  which  generally 
provided  his  material  for  comedy  or  tragedy.  Lodge's 
Rosalynde  is  a  commonplace  example  of  the  more 
elaborate  novel  of  early  Elizabethan  Literature,  the 
kind  of  fiction  represented  in  prose  by  Sidney's 
Arcadia  and  Lyly's  Fuphues,  and  in  poetry  by  the 
aimlessly  bewildering  plot  of  the  Faerie  Queene.  Such 
fiction    still    delights    imaginative   children ;    but  t«. 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT  201 

grown  folks  of  our  day,  who  become  critical,  it  gen- 
erally seems  tediously  trivial.  From  this  original 
come  the  fantastic  plot  of  As  You  Like  It^  the  general 
atmosphere,  and  the  great  tendency  to  incidental  mor- 
alizing. Beautifully  phrased,  this  moralizing,  even 
in  As  You  Like  It,  is  really  almost  as  commonplace 
as  that  of  Euphues  itself.  The  Duke,  and  Jaques, 
and  Touchstone  alike  spout  line  after  line  of  such 
graceful  platitude  as  Elizabethans  loved,  and  people 
of  our  time  generally  find  tiresome.  After  all,  there 
is  a  case  for  who  should  say  that  the  open  air  and  the 
wisdom  of  As  You  Like  It  differ  less  than  their  ad- 
mirers would  admit  from  the  same  traits  in  the  novel 
of  Lodge,  where  they  are  palpably  make-believe. 

This  is  not  to  say  that  As  You  Like  It  remains  no 
better  than  the  lifeless  old  story  from  which  it  is 
taken.  The  fact  that,  while  Lodge's  Rosalvnde  is 
dead  and  gone  these  three  centuries,  Shakspere's 
Rosalind  survives  among  the  lasting  figures  of  Eng- 
lish Literature,  would  instantly  prove  the  error  of  any 
such  pert  statement  as  that.  What  makes  the  differ- 
ence, however,  is  not  that  Shakspere  suddenly  becomes 
a  poet  of  Nature  ;  it  is  rather  the  same  trait  which 
made  the  difference  between  Romeo  and  Juliet  and 
the  poem  of  Arthur  Brooke,  between  the  Merchant  of 
Venice  and  the  fantastic  nursery  stories  on  which  it  is 
based,  between  Henry  IV.  and  the  lifeless  pages  of 
Holinshed.  By  this  time,  Shak8))ere's  creative  imagi- 
nation was  so  easily  alert  that  he  could  hardly  present 
a  character  in  any  play  without  making  it  seem  hu- 


202  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

man.  In  As  You  Like  It,  from  beginning  to  end, 
and  despite  an  amount  of  operatic  convention  which 
finally  brings  us  unremonstrating  to  the  little  Masque 
of  Hymen,!  the  people  are  real.  They  are  people,  too, 
of  a  specific  romantic  kind,  who  need  to  keep  them 
alive  not  the  actual  breezes  of  any  earthly  forest,  but 
an  atmosphere  where  every  breath  of  air  feeds  a 
gentle  sentiment  of  romantic  love,  with  melancholy 
and  gayety  alike  close  at  hand.  When  people  live 
for  us  as  Rosalind  lives,  and  Celia,  and  Orlando,  and 
the  Duke,  and  Jaques,  and  Touchstone,  and  Audrey, 
we  accept  them  as  facts ;  and  with  them  we  accept 
whatever  else  their  existence  involves.  What  makes  As 
You  Like  It  live,  then,  is  the  spontaneous  ease  with 
which  Shakspere's  creative  imagination  translated 
conventional  types  into  living  individuals. 

There  are  plenty  of  traces,  at  the  same  time,  of  the 
conventional  conditions  from  which  and  amid  which 
these  individuals  emerged  into  the  full  vitality  we 
recognize.  After  all,  the  very  open-air  atmosphere  is 
only  a  fresh  whiff  of  what  had  proved  theatrically 
effective  m  Love's  Labour  's  Lost  and  the  Midsummer 
Niyht''s  Bream.  The  disguise  of  Rosalind  is  a  fresh 
and  far  more  elaborate  use  of  the  stage  device  which 
had  proved  popular  in  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 
and  the  Merchant  of  Venice.  The  clown.  Touch- 
stone, is  a  curiously  individual  development  from  a 
very  old  stage  type.  In  the  Moralities  and  the  In- 
terludes, the  most  popular  character  was  the  Vice, 

1  V.  iv.  114  seq. 


AS   YOU   LIKE  IT  203 

a  personage  in  many  respects  analogous  to  the 
Clown  of  pantomime  or  of  the  modern  circus.  In 
Shakspere's  comedies,  from  Dull,  and  the  Dromios, 
and  Launce,  to  Dogberry  and  Verges,  there  has  been 
a  steady  line  of  conventional  buffoons.  Here,  and 
later,  these  two  conventions  seem  for  a  while  to  merge 
with  the  historical  tradition  of  court-jesters  —  in 
Shakspere's  time  still  actual  facts  —  in  a  new  con- 
vention, different  enough  from  all  its  sources  to  seem, 
for  centuries,  a  thing  apart.  Touchstone  and  his 
fellow-clowns,  too,  are  really  more  conventional  than 
even  this  view  of  them  would  at  first  suggest.  They 
are  not  an  essential  part  of  the  plays  where  they  ap- 
pear ;  without  them  everything  might  fall  out  as  it 
falls.  What  they  provide  is  only  a  comic  chorus, 
whose  essentially  amusing  character  makes  it  prob- 
ably the  best  theatrical  vehicle  for  such  incidental 
moralizing  as  is  always  relished  by  an  English  public. 
Among  the  characters  in  As  You  Like  It,  if  any 
one  emerges  from  the  group  as  notably  sympathetic, 
it  is  certainly  Rosalind  ;  if  any  two,  certainly  Rosa- 
lind and  Celia.  Perhaps  this  may  be  only  because 
they  were  meant  to  be  charming,  and  have  generally 
proved  so.  If  we  consider,  however,  that  in  JIuch 
Ado  About  Nothing  Beatrice  seemed  heroine  more 
distinctly  than  Benedick  seemed  hero,  and  if  we  con- 
sider, too,  that  as  far  back  as  the  Merchant  of  Venice 
Portia  stood  out  more  conspicuously  ideal  than  any- 
body else,  we  have  in  this  constant  prominence  of 
idealized  women  a  suggestion  that,  when  these  come- 


204  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

dies  were  making,  Shakspere  was  sensitive  to  femi- 
nine fascination,  and  showed  no  traces  of  sensitiveness 
to  the  mischief  which  such  fascination  involves.  To 
draw  from  this  suggestion  any  inference  as  to  the  cir- 
cumstances of  his  private  life  would  certainly  be  un- 
warrantable. As  a  fact  in  his  artistic  development, 
however,  as  an  evidence  of  the  phases  of  human  emo- 
tion to  which  for  the  moment  he  was  most  disposed, 
the  suggestion  is  worth  remembering.  For  the  whole 
charm  of  As  You  Like  It  is  based  on  a  sentiment 
involved  in  this  very  prominence  of  bewitching  wo- 
men. No  one  could  have  made  sucli  a  comedy  who 
was  not  keenly  alive  to  the  delights  of  virginal,  roman- 
tic love.  Rosalind,  in  short,  is  the  heroine  of  such 
delicately  sentimental  comedy  as  expresses  the  lighter 
phase  of  the  mood  whose  tragedy  is  phrased  in  Romeo 
and  Juliet.  The  charm  of  such  impressions  in  real  life 
lies  in  their  half-apprehended  evanescence.^  These 
are  not  real  women ;  they  are  such  women  as  a  ro- 
mantic lover  dreams  his  mistress  to  be.  From  all 
dreams  men  must  wake.  From  such  as  these,  the 
wakening  is  terribly  painful.  There  are  men,  though, 
who  feel  that  the  memory  of  the  dream  is  worth  all 
the  pain  of  the  waking. 

Such  romantic  sentiments  as  this,  however,  perha])s 
tend  to  mislead  us  in  our  study.  As  You  Like  It  is 
no  impassioned,  reckless  outburst  of  romantic  enthusi- 
asm. Such  an  outburst  would  have  been  foreign  to 
Shakspere  at  any  time.    Over  and  over  again,  his  work 

1  See  p.  126. 


TWELFTH   NIGHT  205 


o 


expresses  moods  which  none  but  a  passionate  nature 
could  feel.  In  his  expression  of  such  moods,  how- 
ever, he  was  always  a  cool,  sane  artist.  All  that  we 
have  touched  oa  is  in  As  You  Like  It.  To  complete 
our  impression,  though,  we  must  remember  that  in 
As  You  Like  It,  too,  is  the  well-known  expression  of 
a  temper  which  underlies  much  of  Shakspere's  art  at 
this  period  :  ^  — 

"  All  the  world  's  a  stage, 
And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players: 
They  have  their  exits  and  their  entrances; 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts, 
His  acts  being  seven  ages,"  — 

which  need  not  be  detailed. 


XIY.   Twelfth  Night. 

[In  the  diary  of  John  Manningliain,  of  tlie  Middle  Temple,  Barrister- 
at-Law,  for  February  2nd,  1602,  occurs  this  passage:  "  At  our  feast 
wee  had  a  play  called  Twelve  Night,  or  what  you  will,  much  like  the 
conimedy  of  errores,  or  Menechmi  in  Plautus,  but  most  like  aud  ueere 
to  tliat  in  Italian  called  Imianni.  A  good  practise  in  it  to  make  the 
steward  beleeve  his  lady  widdowe  was  in  love  with  him,  by  couuter- 
fayting  a  letter  as  from  his  lady,  in  generall  termes,  telling  him  \\  hat 
shee  likod  best  in  him,  aud  prescribing  his  gesture  in  smiling,  his  ap- 
paraile,  i^c,  and  then  when  he  came  to  practise  making  him  beleeve 
they  tooke  him  to  be  mad  " 

The  source  of  the  main  plot  may  have  been  some  Italian  comedies, 
and  very  probably  Barnaby  Riche's  Apolonlus  und  Silln,  published  in 

1  II.  vii.  139  seq. 


206  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

1581.     The  episode  of  Malvolio,  Sir  Toby,  etc.,  seems  to  be  original 
with  Shakspere. 

As  Twelfth  Night  was  not  mentioned  by  Meres,  it  is  confidently 
assumed  to  belong  somewhere  between  September,  1598,  and  Feb- 
ruary, 1602.] 

To  many  of  us  nowadays,  no  play  of  Shakspere's 
is  more  constantly  delightful  than  Twelfth  Night. 
Whether  you  read  it  or  see  it,  you  find  it  thoroughly 
amusing;  and  you  are  hardly  ever  bothered  by  the 
lurking  consciousness,  so  often  fatal  to  the  enjoyment 
of  anything,  that  you  really  ought  to  take  this  matter 
more  seriously.  Rather,  if  you  let  yourself  go,  you 
feel  comfortably  assured  that  here,  at  any  rate,  is 
something  which  was  made  only  to  be  wholesomely 
enjoyed.  If  you  enjoy  it,  then,  you  have  not  only  had 
a  good  time  ;  you  have  the  added,  more  subtle  satis- 
faction of  having  done  your  duty. 

To  dwell  on  Twelfth  Night  in  detail,  then,  would  be 
unusually  pleasant.  For  our  purposes,  however,  which 
are  merely  to  fix  its  place,  if  we  can,  in  the  artistic 
development  of  Shakspere,  we  need  only  glance  at  it ; 
and  in  a  study  which  perforce  grows  so  long  as  this,  it 
were  unwise  to  dwell  on  anything  longer  than  we  need. 

The  one  fact  for  us  to  observe,  and  to  keep  in  mind, 
is  the  surprising  contrast  between  the  free,  rollicking, 
graceful,  poetic  Twelfth  Night  which  any  theatre-goer 
and  any  reader  of  Shakspere  knows  almost  by  heart, 
and  the  Twelfth  Night  which  reveals  itself  to  whoever 
pursues  such  a  course  of  study  as  ours.  Taken  by 
itself,  the  play  seems  not  only  admirably  complete, 


TWELFTH   NlGIiT  207 

but  distinctly  fresh  and  new,  —  spontaneous,  vivid,  full 
of  fun,  of  romantic  sentiment,  and  of  human  nature, 
and  above  all  individually  different  from  anything 
else.  This  Illyria,  for  example,  is  a  world  by  itself, 
whither  one  might  sail  from  the  Messina  of  Benedick 
and  Beatrice,  or  perhaps  travel  from  the  Verona  of 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  to  find  it  different  from  these,  much 
as  regions  in  real  life  differ  one  from  another.  For 
all  the  romance  and  the  fun  of  Tivelfth  Night,  its 
plausibility  is  excellent ;  and  so  its  individuality  seems 
complete. 

As  everybody  can  feel,  all  this  is  lastingly  true. 
What  is  also  lastingly  true,  yet  can  be  appreciated 
only  by  those  of  us  who  have  begun  to  study  Shaks- 
pere  chronologically,  is  that,  to  a  degree  hitherto  un- 
approached,  what  is  distinct  and  new  in  Twelfth  Night 
is  only  the  way  in  which  the  play  is  put  together. 
From  beginning  to  end,  as  we  scrutinize  it,  we  find  it 
a  tissue  of  incidents,  of  characters,  of  situations  which 
have  been  ])roved  effective  by  previous  stage  experi- 
ence. Confusion  of  identity,  for  example,  almost  as 
impossible  as  that  of  the  Comedy  of  Errors,  reappears 
in  Sebastian  and  Viola.  Viola  herself,  once  more  the 
boy-actor  playing  the  heroine  unhampered  by  skirts, 
revives  Julia,  and  Portia,  and  Nerissa,  and  Jessica, 
and  Rosalind  —  with  them  foreshadowing  Imoircn. 
Like  Julia  in  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  Viola, 
disguised  as  a  page,  carries  to  her  rival  the  messages 
of  her  own  chosen  lover.^  The  tale  of  shipwreck, 
again,  revives  the  similar  narrative  in  the  Comedy  of 

1  I.  V.  178.     Cf.  Two  Gentlemen  of  Vrromi,  IV,  iv.  113. 


208  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

Errors  ;  ^  the  friendship  of  Antonio  for  Sebastian  less 
certainly  revives  the  analogous  friendship  of  the  other 
Antonio  for  Bassanio  in  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  while 
from  the  Comedy  of  Errors,  once  more,  comes  the 
business  of  the  purse.^  In  Malvolio,  as  we  have  seen 
before,^  self-deception  appears  as  distinctly  as  ever ; 
while,  at  least  on  the  stage,  the  plot  of  Sir  Toby,  Sir 
Andrew,  and  Maria  against  Malvolio  seems  simply  a 
reversal  of  the  plots  by  which  Benedick  and  Beatrice 
are  united.*  Sir  Toby  and  Sir  Andrew  themselves 
are  of  the  race  of  Falstaff  and  Slender,  differing  from 
tliese  much  as,  in  any  art,  idealized  figures  grow  to 
differ  from  figures  which  are  taken  more  directly 
from  life.  The  Clown  is  similarly  of  the  race  of 
Touchstone.  And  so  on  ;  the  more  one  looks  for 
familiar  things  in  new  guise,  the  more  one  finds. 
What  conceals  them  at  first  is  only  that  Twelfth 
Night  resembles  As  You  Like  It  in  being  full  of  a 
romantic  sentiment  peculiarly  its  own,  with  a  less 
palpable  but  still  sufficient  undercurrent  of  delicate 
melancholy.  Throughout,  too,  the  infusion  of  this 
new  spirit  into  these  old  bodies  is  made  with  the 
quiet  ease  which  we  have  begun  to  recognize  as  the 
mark  of  Shakspere's  handiwork. 

Together  with  As  You  Like  It,  then,  we  may  call 
Twelfth  Night  light,  joyous,  fantastic,  fleeting,  —  a 
thing  to  be  enjoyed,  to  be  loved,  to  be  dreamed  about ; 

1  I.  ii.     Cf.  Comedy  of  Errors,  I.  i.  62  seq. 

2  III.  iii.  38  seq. ;  iv.  368  seq.  Cf.  Comedy  of  Errors,  IV.  i  100  seq.  ; 
ii.  29  seq. ;  iv.  1  seq. 

8  Seep.  195. 

*  Cf.  II.  V.  with  Much  Ado  About  Nothing,  II.  iii. ;  III.  i. 


TWELFTH   XlfJIIT  209 

but  never,  if  one  would  understand,  to  be  taken  with 
philosophic  seriousness.  Plays  in  purpose,  poems  in 
fact,  these  two  comedies  alike  are  best  appreciated  by 
those  who  find  in  them  only  lasting  expressions  and 
sources  of  unthinking  {)leasure. 

While  As  You  Like  It,howexcr,di&ers  from  Shaks- 
pere's  other  work  by  translating  into  permanent  dra- 
matic form  a  dull  novel  of  a  kind  not  before  found 
among  the  sources  of  his  plays,  Twelfth  Night,  far 
from  being  essentially  different  from  liis  former  plays, 
is  perhaps  the  most  completely  characteristic  we  have 
yet  considered.  Again  and  again  we  have  already  re- 
marked in  Shakspere  a  trait  which  will  appear  through- 
out. For  what  reason  we  cannot  say  —  indolence  we 
might  guess  in  one  mood,  prudence  in  another  —  he 
was  exceptionally  economical  of  invention,  except  in 
mere  language.  Scenes,  characters,  situations,  devices 
which  had  once  proved  themselves  effective  he  would 
constantly  prefer  to  any  bold  experiment.  This  very 
economy  of  invention,  perhaps,  contained  an  element 
of  strength ;  it  left  his  full  energy  free  for  the  mas- 
terly phrasing,  and  the  spontaneous  creation  of  char- 
acter, which  has  made  his  work  lasting.  Strong  or 
weak,  however,  the  trait  is  clearly  becoming  almost 
as  characteristic  as  the  constant  concreteness  of  his 
style ;  and  nowhere  does  it  appear  more  distinctly  or 
to  more  advantage  than  when  we  recognize  in  Twelfth 
Niylit  —  with  all  its  perennial  delights  —  a  master- 
piece not  of  invention  but  of  recapitulation. 

14 


210  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 


XV.    Shakspere  from  1593  to  1600. 

In  the  year  1600,  we  may  remember,  more  works  of 
Shakspere  were  published  than  in  any  other.  This  alone 
might  have  warranted  us  in  considering  1600  as  an 
epoch  in  his  career.  The  fact  that  by  1600,  however, 
all  the  plays  considered  in  this  chapter  were  probably 
finished  gives  us  a  better  warrant  still ;  for  clearly  we 
have  reached  a  point  where  we  may  conveniently  pause 
to  consider  the  growth  and  the  change  in  his  work  since 
1593. 

To  begin  with,  we  may  well  remind  ourselves  of  at 
least  two  inevitable  uncertainties.  Our  chronology, 
in  the  first  place,  is  at  best  conjectural ;  in  the  second 
place,  our  texts  are  almost  invariably  some  years 
later  than  the  dates  to  which  we  have  assigned  them. 
In  view  of  the  incessant  alteration  made  in  dramatic 
works  which  hold  the  stage  anywhere,  it  would  be 
folly  to  assume  the  complete  integrity  of  any  text  in 
the  whole  series  of  Shakspere's  plays. 

The  latter  consideration,  to  be  sure,  need  trouble  us 
less  than  at  first  seems  probable.  While  it  must 
surely  be  of  weight  in  any  system  of  verbal  criticism, 
it  does  not  so  seriously  affect  a  study  concerned 
with  broad  effects.  In  considering  any  of  the  plays 
before  us,  however,  we  must  beware  of  the  temptation 
to  assume  rigidly  that  it  was  finished,  just  as  we  have 
it,  at  the  time  to  which  we  conjecturally  assign  it. 


SHAKSPERE   FROM   1593  TO    1600  21) 

All  we  can  fairly  assert  in  most  cases  is  that  on  the 
whole  we  believe  the  work,  in  conception  and  in  gen- 
eral motive,  to  belong  to  the  period  we  name. 

In  the  matter  of  actual  chronology,  we  are  more  un- 
certain still.  Except  in  one  or  two  cases  —  the  most 
definite  of  which  is  Henry  V.  —  we  are  quite  unable 
to  specify  anything  like  an  indubitable  date.  What  is 
more,  an  indubitable  date  in  itself  might  be  mislead- 
ing. Any  single  year  embraces  twelve  months ;  two 
works  properly  assigned  to  it,  then,  may  often  be 
nearer  to  works  of  contiguous  years  than  to  each 
other.  All  we  may  fairly  assert  of  our  chronology, 
then,  is  that  to  a  number  of  critics  the  order  in  which 
we  have  considered  the  plays  discussed  in  this  chap- 
ter has  seemed  approximately  probable;  while,  with 
more  certainty  than  is  usual  in  our  study,  we  may  feel 
sure  that,  in  some  order  or  other,  and  in  a  condition 
more  or  less  approaching  that  in  which  we  possess 
them,  all  the  plays  we  have  as  yet  considered  existed 
by  1600. 

In  1597  there  were  quartos  of  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
Richard  II.,  and  Richard  III.  In  1598,  Meres's  list 
mentioned  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  the  Comedy 
of  Errors,  Love'' s  Labour'' s  Lost,  the  Midsummer  NiyhV  s 
Dream,  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  Richard  II.,  Richard 
III,  Henry  IV.,  King  John,  Titus  Andronicus,  and 
Romeo  and  Juliet ;  in  1598,  too,  there  were  quartos  of 
Love's  Labour 's  Lost,  and  the  First  Part  of  Henry  IV. 
In  1600  came  quartos  of  Titus  Andronicus,  the  Mid- 
summer NighVs  Dream,  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  the 


212  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

Second  Part  of  Henry  IV.,  Henry  V.,  and  Much  Ado 
About  Nothing ;  while  As  You  Like  It  was  entered  in 
the  Stationers'  Register.  There  can  be  no  reasonable 
doubt  that  Henry  VI.  is  on  the  whole  earlier  than  any 
other  of  the  chronicle-histories,  nor  yet  that  the  Merry 
Wives  of  Windsor  belongs  to  the  period  of  Henry  IV. 
and  Henry  V.  This  leaves  us  in  doubt  only  concern- 
ing the  Taming  of  the  Shreiv,  which  is  of  little  weight 
in  our  general  consideration  of  Shakspere,  and  Twelfth 
Night,  which  was  certainly  in  existence  by  February, 
1602,  and  with  equal  certainty  contains  little  which 
should  alter  an  opinion  based  on  the  other  plays 
before  us. 

Whatever  our  errors  in  chronological  detail,  then, 
our  chronology  now  warrants  the  conclusions  we  may 
draw  about  the  comparative  traits  of  Shakspere  in 
1593  and  in  1600. 

In  1593,  we  remember,  when  Marlowe's  work  was 
finished,  Shakspere,  though  had  he  accomplished 
nothing  great,  had  displayed  three  marked  charac- 
teristics,—  a  natural  habit  of  thought,  by  means  of 
which  he  found  words  and  concepts  more  nearly  iden- 
tical than  most  men  ever  find  them  ;  restless  versa- 
tility in  trying  his  hand  at  every  kind  of  contemporary 
writing ;  and  finally  a  touch  of  originality,  in  enliven- 
ing the  characters  of  romantic  comedy  by  the  results 
of  every-day  observation.^  At  the  age  of  twenty-nine, 
after  six  years  of  professional  life,  this  seemed  the  sum 
of  his  accomplishment. 

1  See  pp.  65, 100-102. 


SHAKSPERE   FROM   1593   TO   1600  213 

During  the  seven  years  which  followed,  the  years 
which  brought  him  from  twenty-nine  to  thirty-six,  and 
in  the  last  of  which  he  had  been  professionally  at  work 
for  thirteen  years,  all  these  traits  persisted  and  de- 
veloped. While,  in  view  of  the  intense  craving  for 
verbal  novelty  which  remained  so  marked  a  trait  of 
his  public,  it  would  be  unsafe  to  assert  that  he  was 
steadily  changing  his  habit  of  thought  from  a  con- 
sideration of  mere  phrases  to  one  of  the  concepts  for 
which  in  his  mind  the  most  trivial  phrase  would  nor- 
mally stand,  it  is  certain  that  his  style,  always  preg- 
nant, kept  growing  more  so ;  and  that  by  1600  he 
was  perhaps  more  perfectly  master  of  concept  and 
word  alike  than  the  growing  intensity  of  his  later 
thought  allowed  him  to  remain.  As  for  his  versatil- 
ity, we  need  only  remember  that  when  this  period 
began  tragedy  remained  in  the  condition  of  Titus  An- 
dronicus,  comedy  at  best  in  that  of  the  Two  Gentle- 
men of  Verona,  chronicle-history  in  that  of  Henry  VI.  ; 
and  that  by  1600  he  had  surely  produced,  to  go  no 
further,  Romeo  and  Juliet,  3Juch  Ado  About  Nothing, 
and  Henri/  IV.  As  for  his  observation  of  life,  the  first 
clear  trace  of  which  we  found  in  the  Two  Gentlemen  oj 
Verona,  it  was  the  necessary  foundation  of  his  char- 
acteristic creative  imagination,  which  revealed  itself 
perhaps  most  plainly  in  the  development  from  Old- 
castle  of  Falstaff. 

This  power  of  creating  character  —  of  making  his 
personages  not  only  theatrically  effective,  but  so  hu- 
man that  posterity  has  discussed    them    as   gravely 


214  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

as  if  they  had  actually  lived  —  is  the  most  marked 
trait  which  appeared  in  Shakspere  during  the  seven 
years  we  are  now  considering.  In  1593  not  one  of 
the  great  Shaksperean  characters  is  known  to  have 
existed ;  by  1600  he  had  surely  created  Romeo,  and 
Juliet,  and  Mercutio,  and  Richard  III.,  and  Shy- 
lock,  and  Portia,  and  Falstaff,  and  Hotspur,  and 
Prince  Hal,  and  Benedick,  and  Beatrice,  and  Dog- 
berry, and  Rosalind,  and  Jaques,  and  Touchstone  — 
one  might  go  on  for  a  page  or  two.  A  normal  result, 
perhaps,  of  the  traits  which  he  had  earlier  shown,  this 
creative  power  had  now  declared  itself  with  a  vigor 
which  makes  the  result  of  his  work,  even  had  he  never 
done  more,  sufficient  to  place  him  at  the  head  of 
imaginative  English  Literature, 

A  little  scrutiny,  however,  shows  that,  in  spite  of 
its  scope  and  achievement,  this  power  worked  and  de- 
veloped very  normally.  Off-hand  one  is  disposed  to 
think  of  Shakspere  as  at  any  moment  able,  if  he 
chose,  to  do  anything.  Unless  our  chronology  be 
utterly  wrong,  however,  it  proves  pretty  clearly  that 
when  he  was  busy  with  one  kind  of  writing  he  was 
by  no  means  in  condition  to  do  equally  well  with 
another.  Compare  the  Midsummer  NigMs  Dream, 
with  Richard  III.,  for  example ;  Romeo  and  Juliet 
with  Richard  II. ;  the  Merchant  of  Venice  with  King 
John  ;  Henry  IV.  with  the  Taming  of  the  Shrew  and 
the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  ;  Much  Ado  About  Nothing 
with  Henry  V.  Rouglily  speaking,  we  may  assume 
each  of   these    grou])8  to  be  contemporary.      Pretty 


SHAKSPERE   FROM   1593   TO   1600  215 

clearly,  for  all  his  power,  Shakspere  was  human 
enough  to  slight  one  thing  when  he  was  giving  his 
best  energies  to  something  else.  Along  with  the  old 
versatility  of  effort,  then,  we  find  a  new  trait,  or  per- 
haps rather  a  new  development,  which  we  may  call 
versatility  of  concentration. 

Besides  all  this,  we  must  emphasize  the  trait  by 
which,  in  the  beginning  of  this  chapter,  we  justified 
the  separation  of  the  plays  here  discussed  from  those 
discussed  before.^  Throughout  these  later  plays,  some- 
times pervading  them,  sometimes  apparent  rather  in 
detail,  we  are  constantly  aware  of  the  impulse  which 
we  called  artistic.  In  distinction  from  the  Shakspere 
of  the  old  experimental  work,  the  Shakspere  who  made 
the  plays  now  before  us  must  have  been  so  constantly, 
spontaneously,  profoundly  aware  of  how  what  he  was 
dealing  with  made  him  feel  that  he  would  instinctively 
try  to  express  his  feeling  by  every  possible  means. 
In  the  Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream^  where  we  consid- 
ered this  trait  most  carefully,  it  appeared  at  once  first 
and  perliaps  most  purely.  Ever  since  it  has  appeared 
again  and  again,  in  constantly  varying  form. 

At  the  risk  of  tedious  repetition,  it  is  prudent  to 
warn  whoever  has  not  carefully  watched  the  work  of 
artists  that  no  valid  conclusion  concerning  their  actual 
lives  and  characters  can  be  drawn  from  even  their 
most  sincere  artistic  achievements.  Without  other 
evidence  than  is  as  yet  before  us,  we  cannot  assert 
that  Shakspere  thought,  or  believed,  or  cared  for  this 

1  See  p.  103. 


216  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

ideal  or  that ;  nor  yet  that  to  have  known  in  imagina- 
tion what  he  has  expressed  he  must  personally  have 
experienced  certain  circumstances,  good  or  evil.  We 
can  assert,  however,  that  he  could  hardly  have  ex- 
pressed these  things  without  at  least  three  qualifica- 
tions :  first,  a  sympathetic  understanding  of  such 
great  historic  movement  as  is  finally  phrased  in 
Henry  IV.  and  Henry  V. ;  secondly,  a  sympathetic 
sharing  of  such  romantic  feeling  as  underlies  both  the 
single  tragedy  of  this  period  and  all  the  comedies ; 
and  thirdly,  a  sympathetic  understanding  of  how  a 
charming,  idealized  woman  can  fascinate  and  enchain 
an  adoring,  romantic  lover.  All  of  which,  while  last- 
ingly true,  is  not  spiritually  profound. 

We  come,  then,  to  what  we  may  call  his  limitations. 
In  the  first  place,  the  only  play  of  this  period  which 
involves  any  profound  sense  of  the  evils  lurking  in 
human  life  and  human  nature,  is  Much  Ado  About 
Nothing^  where  the  undercurrent  of-  irony  tends 
slightly  toward  deeper  things.  In  the  second  place, 
as  we  saw  most  concretely  in  Twelfth  Nighty  Shakspere 
throughout  this  period,  though  a  skilful  stage-play- 
wright and  easily  master  of  his  technical  art,  was  very 
chary  of  invention.  His  mastery  is  shown  not  only 
by  his  mere  verbal  style,  but  by  constructive  skill. 
This  we  saw  in  Romeo  and  Juliet ;  and,  better  still,  in 
the  Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream,  and  the  Merchant  of 
Venice,  and  As  You  Like  It,  where  he  subtly  adapted 
the  conventional  old  Induction,  as  it  appears  in  the 
Taming  of  the  Shrew,  to  the  form  in  which,  as  part  of 


SHAKSPERE   FROM   1593   TO   1600  217 

the  main  action,  it  removes  incredible  incidents  to 
plausible  distance.  His  economy,  or  poverty,  of  in- 
vention, on  the  other  hand,  shows  itself  in  his  inces- 
sant repetition  of  whatever  device  —  of  character,  of 
incident,  of  situation  —  had  once  proved  theatrically 
effective. 

In  the  presence  of  such  work  as  we  have  been  con- 
sidering, however,  one  has  small  patience  with  talk 
of  limitations.  One's  impulse  is  rather  to  question 
whether  in  seven  years  any  merely  human  being  could 
possibly  have  contributed  to  a  stage  and  a  nation 
which  up  to  that  moment  had  had  little  permanent 
literature  at  all,  so  wonderful  a  body  of  permanent 
literature  as  is  actually  before  us.  To  correct  this 
impression, —  to  see  Shakspcre's  work  in  its  true  re- 
lation to  its  time,  —  we  must  glance  hastily  at  the 
other  productions  ^  of  these  seven  years. 

In  1594  were  published,  together  with  Lucrece,  the 
first  works  of  Chapman,  Hooker,  and  Southwell, 
Daniel's  Rosamund,  Drayton's  Idea's  Mirror,  and 
plays  by  Greene,  Lodge,  Marlowe,  Nash,  and  Peele. 
Hooker's  work  was  the  most  lasting  —  the  first  four 
books  of  his  Ecclesiastical  Polity.  In  1595  came 
Daniel's  Civil  Wars,  Sidney's  Apology  for  Poetry,  and 
the  Colin  Cloiit,  the  Astrophel,  the  Amoretti,  and  the 
Epithalamium  of  Spenser.  In  1596  came  Davies's 
Orchestra,  Ralegh's  Discovery  of  Guiana,  and  the  last 
three  books  of  the  Faerie  Queene.  In  1597,  together 
with  the  three  first  quartos  of  Shakspere's  plays,  came 

^  Ryland :   Chronological  Outlines,  etc. 


218  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

the  first  ten  of  Bacon's  Essays^  another  book  of  Hook- 
er's Ecclesiastical  Polity,  and  the  first  published  works 
of  Dekker  and  of  Middleton.  In  1598,  together  with 
two  new  quartos  of  Shakspere,  came  the  first  instal- 
ment of  Chapman's  Homer,  Drayton's  Heroical  Epis- 
tles, Marlowe  and  Chapman's  Hero  and  Leander,  and 
the  first  published  work  of  Thomas  Hejwood.  In 
1599,  the  year  when  Spenser  died,  came  Davies's  Nosce 
Teipsum,  and  among  other  plays  Jonson's  Every  Man 
out  of  his  Humour.  In  1600,  together  with  six  new 
quartos  of  Shakspere,  came  Dekker's  Fortunatus  and 
ShoemaTcer^s  Holiday,  Fairfax's  Tasso,  the  last  volume 
of  Hakluyt's  Voyages,  and  Jonson's  Cynthia's  Bevels. 

This  list,  a  mere  hasty  culling  from  Ryland's  book, 
is  enough  for  our  purposes.  Without  pretending  to 
be  exact  or  exhaustive,  it  shows  clearly  two  facts :  at 
the  time  when  Shakspere  was  making  the  plays  con- 
sidered in  this  chapter,  the  intellectual  life  about  him 
was  active  to  a  degree  unprecedented  in  English  Litera- 
ture ;  and  the  works  contributed  to  English  Literature 
during  this  period  differed  from  what  had  come  be- 
fore almost  as  distinctly  as  this  second  group  of 
Shakspere's  plays  differs  from  the  firet.  What  came 
before  was  archaic  ;  at  least  by  comparison,  what  comes 
now  seems  modern. 

A  glance  at  the  mere  names  of  the  playwrights  will 
confirm  this  impression.  In  Mr.  Fleay's  Chronicle 
History  of  the  London  Stage,  he  gives  in  one  chapter 
a  list  of  the  authors  who  wrote  between  1586  and  1593,' 

1  Pages  89-91. 


SHAKSPERE    FROM    1593   TO   1600  219 

and  in  the  next  a  list  of  those  who  wrote  between 
1594  and  1603.^  Shakspere's  name  appears  in  both 
lists.  In  the  first  his  fellow-playwrights  are  Peele, 
Marlowe,  Greene,  Lodge,  Kyd,  Xash,  and  Lyly ;  in  the 
second  they  are  Jonson,  Dekker,  Chajjman,  Marston, 
Middleton,  and  Heywood.  The  only  name  besides 
Shakspere's  which  the  lists  contain  in  common  is  that 
of  Lyly,  an  old  play  of  whose  was  revived  after  1597 
by  the  Chapel  children  of  Blackfriars. 

These  facts  are  enough.  Great  as  Shakspere's  de- 
velopment was  during  these  seven  years,  it  was  only 
a  part  of  the  contemporary  development  which  finally 
modernized  both  English  Literature  and  the  English 
stage.  As  was  the  case  with  his  versatile,  experi- 
mental beginning,  what  he  accomplished  was  less 
extraordinary  than  it  would  have  been  during  almost 
any  other  equal  period  of  English  history.  We  can 
hardly  wonder  that  at  a  moment  of  such  supreme 
general  vigor  and  activity,  he  was  not  remarked  as 
supreme. 

For,  after  all,  if  one  ask  how  his  work  and  his 
achievement  so  far  must  have  presented  itself  to  his 
own  mind,  there  is  no  more  plausible  answer  than 
this  :  With  all  his  old  command  of  mere  langunge,  and 
with  consummate  command  of  theatrical  technique, he 
had  been  possessed  by  an  amazing  power  of  creative 
imagination,  and  by  sustained  though  variable  artistic 
impulse.  To  these  facts  the  permanence  of  his  achieve- 
ment during  this  period  is  due.    In  the  course  of  time, 

1  Pages  154-156. 


220  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

this  permanence  has  obscured  the  equally  true  facts 
that  when  his  energy  was  concentrated  anywhere  it 
weakened  somewhere  else,  and  that,  in  spite  of  his 
great  power  of  creating  characters  and  phrases,  he  was 
weaker  than  many  of  his  contemporaries  in  such  in- 
genious, fresh  invention  of  stage  situations  as  always 
commands  contemporary  applause.  At  the  same  time, 
too,  he  had  never  used  his  mastered  powers  for  the 
serious  expression  of  a  profound  or  solemn  purpose. 
His  temper,  so  far  as  we  may  judge  it  from  the  work 
we  have  considered,  was  romantic,  buoyant,  wholesome. 
To  himself,  if  we  had  no  other  evidence,  we  might 
guess  that  he  seemed  a  vigorous,  successful  playwright, 
who  accomplished  tolerable  results  in  spite  of  obvious 
limitations  and  infirmities  which  he  did  not  allow  to 
bother  him.  Before  completing  our  notion  of  him 
now,  however,  we  must  turn  to  the  Sonnets. 


vm 

SHAKSPERE'S  SONNETS 

[In  1598,  Meres,  praising  Shakspere,  mentioned  "  hissugred  Sonnets 
among  his  private  friends."  In  the  Passionate  Pllgruii,  ascribed  to 
Shakspere  thuugh  probably  in  large  part  spurious,  and  published  iu 
1599,  appeared  Sonnets  138  and  144, — 

"  When  my  love  swears  that  she  is  made  of  truth,"  etc., 
and 

"  Two  loves  I  have  of  comfort  and  despair,"  etc. 

On  May  20th,  1609,  "a  Booke  calles  Shakespeares  sonnettes" 
was  entered  in  the  Stationers'  Register.  Iu  1609,  "  Shake-Speares 
Sonnets.  Never  before  Imprinted  "  were  published,  substantially  as  we 
have  them.  The  book  was  dedicated  liy  Thomas  Thorpe,  the  jjub- 
lisher,  "  To  the  onlie  begetter  of  these  insuiug  sonnets,  Mr.  W.  H." 
What  the  term  "  begetter  "  means,  and  who  "  Mr.  W.  H."  was,  have 
never  been  quite  settled. 

Concerning  the  dates  of  the  sonnets  we  can  assert  only  that  some 
of  them  were  probably  in  existence  before  1598,  tiiat  two  of  the  second 
series  were  certainly  in  existence,  substantially  as  we  have  them, 
ill  1599,  and  that  all  were  finislied  by  1609.  In  what  order  they  were 
actually  written  we  have  no  means  of  determining.  For  our  purposes, 
however,  we  are  justified  in  assuming  that,  as  a  whole,  the  sonnets  in- 
clude work  probably  done  before  Henry  I  V.,  and  also  work  done  dur- 
ing the  period  covered  by  the  next  chapter.] 

During  the  last  century  or  so,  a  considerable  litera- 
ture of  comment  and  interpretation  ^  has  gathered 
about  the  So7mets.     Some  of  this  is  instructive,  some 

'  Conveniently  summarized  by  Tyler :  Shakespeare's  Sonnets ;  Lon- 
don, 1890,  pp.  145-149. 


222  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

suggestive ;  much  is  ingeniously  absurd.  In  general, 
however,  all  this  criticism  alike  deals  chiefly  with  the 
question  of  whether  the  Sonnets  are  authentic  state- 
ments of  autobiographic  fact,  or  literary  exercises,  or 
perhaps  rather  allegorical  fantasies.  A  similar  un- 
answerable question  exists  concerning  the  first  great 
series  of  Elizabethan  sonnets,  —  Sidney's  Astrophel 
and  Stella.  About  the  two  other  best-known  series, 
there  is  less  doubt :  Spenser's  Amoretti  are  almost 
certainly  authentic  addresses  to  the  lady  who  became 
his  wife ;  while  Drayton's  sonnets  to  Idea  are  prob- 
ably mere  rhetorical  exercises. 

If  to  these  names  we  add  that  of  Daniel,  who  wrote 
somewhat  analogous  verses  to  one  Delia,  we  have 
completed  the  list  of  familiar  series  of  Elizabethan 
sonnets,  as  distinguished  from  stray,  independent 
ones.  The  names  of  Sidney,  Spenser,  Drayton,  and 
Daniel,  with  whom  we  here  group  Shakspere,  in- 
stantly define  one  fact  about  the  Somiets  which  marks 
them  apart  from  most  of  Shakspere's  work.  Sidney 
and  Spenser  never  wrote  for  the  actual  stage  ;  and, 
though  Drayton  seems  to  have  collaborated  in  a  num- 
ber of  plays,  and  Daniel  to  have  written  one  or  two, 
both  Drayton  and  Daniel  are  generally  remembered 
not  as  dramatists  but  as  poets,  the  body  of  whose 
purely  literary  work  remains  considerable.  In  other 
words,  we  group  Shakspere  now  with  the  masters  not 
of  popular,  but  of  polite  literature.  The  Sonnets,  like 
almost  all  the  extant  work  of  these  other  poets,  were 
addressed  not  to  the  general  taste  of  their  time,  but  to 


SHAKSPERE'S   SONNETS  223 

the  most  sensitively  critical.  Whatever  else,  they  are 
painstaking,  conscientious  works  of  art. 

Throughout  them,  too,  appears  a  mood  perhaps  most 
fully  expressed  in  Sonnet  81 :  — 

*'  Or  I  shall  live  your  epitaph  to  make, 

Or  you  survive  when  I  in  earth  am  rotten; 

From  hence  your  memory  death  cannot  take, 

Although  in  me  each  part  will  be  forgotten. 

Your  name  from  hence  inmiortal  life  shall  have, 

Though  I,  once  gone,  to  all  the  world  must  die: 

The  earth  can  yield  me  but  a  common  grave, 

When  you  entombed  in  men's  eyes  shall  lie. 

Your  monument  shall  be  my  gentle  verse. 

Which  eyes  not  yet  created  shall  o'er-read, 

And  tongues  to  be  your  being  shall  rehearse, 

When  all  the  breathers  of  this  world  are  dead ; 
You  still  shall  live  —  such  virtue  hath  my  pen  — 
Where  breath  most  breathes,  even  in  the  mouths  of  men." 

The  writer  of  these  sonnets,  in  short,  avows  his  belief 
that  they  shall  be  lasting  literature.  Not  an  infallible 
sign  of  serious  artistic  purpose,  this  is  at  least  a  fre- 
quent. It  appears  in  Spenser's  Amoretti,  and  in  many 
passages  of  Chapman  and  of  Ben  Jonson,  like  that 
superb  boast  about  poetry  in  the  Poetaster :  — 

"  She  can  so  mould  Rome  and  her  monuments 
Within  the  liquid  marble  of  her  lines, 
That  they  shall  live,  fresh  and  miraculous, 
Even  in  the  midst  of  innovating  dust." 

In  small  men  pathetically  comic,  such  confidence 
becomes  in  great  men  nobly  admirable.  Of  Shaks- 
pere's  Sonnets,  then,  we  may  fairly  assort  that  they 


224  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

must  have  seemed  to  the  writer  more  important  and 
valuable  than  his  plays. 

Such  being  the  case,  whoever  attempts  to  define  an 
impression  of  Shakspere's  individuality  must  take 
special  interest  in  these  most  conscientiously  artistic  of 
his  works.  If  one  could  make  sure  of  what  they  mean, 
one  might  confidently  feel  intimate  knowledge  of  tlieir 
author.  Such  confidence,  though,  has  betrayed  too 
many  honest  critics  into  absurdity,  to  prove,  nowadays, 
however  tempting,  a  serious  danger.  The  only  im- 
pregnable answer  to  the  question  of  what  the  Sonnets 
signify  is  the  one  lately  made  by  some  German  writer  : 
"  Ignoramus,  ignorabimus"  ("  We  do  not  know,  and 
we  never  shall"). 

Keeping  carefully  in  mind,  however,  the  necessary 
uncertainty  of  any  conclusion,  we  may  fairly  incline  to 
one  or  another  of  the  unproved,  unprovable  conjectures 
as  to  what  the  Sonnets  actually  mean.  The  conjecture 
of  Mr.  Thomas  Tyler,  while  by  no  means  impregnable, 
seems  perhaps  the  most  plausible.^  In  brief,  he  be- 
lieves that  the  first  series  of  the  Sonnets  —  from  1  to 
126  —  were  addressed  to  William  Herbert,  Earl  of 
Pembroke,  a  very  fascinating  and  somewhat  erratic 
young  nobleman,  whose  age  fits  the  known  dates ;  and 
that  the  second  series  —  from  127  to  152  —  were  ad- 
dressed to  a  certain  Mrs.  Mary  Fitton,  at  one  time  a 


^  T.  Tyler:  Shakespeare's  Sonnets:  London;  David  Nutt:  1890. 
Mr.  Fleay  puts  no  faith  in  this  Tyler  story ;  and  sets  forth  many  reasons 
for  believing  the  Sonnets  to  have  been  addressed  to  Southampton; 
Biographical  Chronicle  of  the  English  Drama :  208-232. 


SriAKSPERE'S  SONNETS  225 

maid  of  honor  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  demonstra- 
bly a  person  of  considerable  fascination  and  of  loose 
morals.  Shakspere,  it  is  assumed,  became  her  lover ; 
and  Pembroke,  by  whom  she  certainly  had  a  child, 
is  assumed  to  have  taken  her  from  him.  The  improb- 
ability that  a  woman  of  her  rank  should  have  had  to 
do  with  theatrical  people  is  met  by  the  fact  that  in 
1600  Will  Kempe,  the  clown  of  Shakspere's  company, 
dedicated  a  book  to  this  very  lady.  The  probability 
that  Mrs.  Fitton  was  the  M^oman  in  question  was  curi- 
ously strengthened  by  the  fact,  discovered  after  Tyler's 
work  was  written,  that  a  colored  effigy  on  her  family 
monument  shows  her  to  have  been  of  very  dark  com- 
plexion. And  so  on.  The  tale  is  plausible  ;  after  all, 
however,  it  is  only  a  tissue  of  past  gossip  and  modern 
conjecture.  The  most  one  can  say  of  it  is  this :  The 
first  series  of  Sonnets  expresses  a  noble  fascination ; 
the  second,  a  base  one,  of  which  the  baseness  grows 
with  contemplation.  The  former  is  certainly  in  har- 
mony with  what  is  known  of  Pembroke,  the  latter 
with  what  is  known  of  Mary  Fitton.  Had  Shakspere 
actually  undergone  such  an  experience  of  folly  and 
shame  as  Tyler  conjectures,  these  poems  would  fitly 
express  it. 

Off-hand,  of  course,  one  would  declare  the  very 
frankness  of  self-revelation  thus  suggested  to  be  in- 
credible. Sensitiveness,  one  would  say,  is  essentially 
reticent ;  and  whoever  wrote  the  Sonnets  proved  there- 
by the  possession  of  rare  sensitiveness.  A  little  con- 
sideration, however,  proves  this  objection  mistaken. 

15 


226  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

To  go  no  further,  Alfred  de  Musset  was  sensitive,  and 
George  Sand,  and  Tennyson,  and  Mrs.  Browning ;  yet 
almost  in  our  own  time  all  four  have  poured  forth 
their  souls  on  paper  with  almost  Byronic  profusion. 
Not  long  since,  an  admiring  reader  of  Mrs.  Browning 
expressed,  together  with  his  admiration,  deep  satis- 
faction that  he  never  knew  her.  Had  he  known  her, 
he  said,  he  could  not  have  borne  the  thought  that  she 
had  taken  the  whole  world  into  a  confidence  which  she 
could  hardly  have  spoken  to  her  nearest  and  dearest. 
All  of  which  meant  that,  despite  his  appreciation,  the 
reader  was  not  at  heart  an  artist,  while  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing was.     So,  very  surely,  w^as  Shakspere. 

Even  if  the  Sonnets  be  self-revealing,  however,  their 
self-revelation  takes  a  very  deliberate  shape.  Nothing 
could  be  much  further  from  a  spontaneous  outburst 
than  these  Sliaksperean  stanzas,  whose  form  is  among 
the  most  highly  studied  in  our  literature.  During 
the  Elizabethan  period  there  were  at  least  three  well- 
defined  varieties  of  sonnet :  the  legitimate  Italian,  or 
Petrarchan,  generally  imitated  by  Wyatt,  Surrey,  and 
Sidney  ;  the  Spenserian,  in  which  the  system  of  rhymes 
resembled  that  of  the  Faerie  Queene  ;  and  that  now 
before  us,  whose  most  familiar  example  is  in  the  work 
of  Shakspere.  If  not  so  intricately  melodious  as  the 
Spenserian  sonnet,  nor  yet  so  sonorously  sustained 
as  the  Petrarchan,  this  Sliaksperean  sonnet  is  con- 
stantly fresh,  varied,  dignified,  and  above  all  idio- 
matic. Why  certain  metrical  forms  seem  specially  at 
home  in  certain  languages,  it  is  hard  to  say ;  but  as 


SHAKSPERE'S  SONNETS  227 

surely  as  the  hexameter  is  idiomatically  classic,  or  the 
terza  rima  Italian,  or  the  Alexandrine  French,  so  the 
blank  verse  line  of  Elizabethan  tragedy  and  the  melo- 
diously fluent  quatrains  of  the  Shaksperean  sonnet  are 
idiomatically  English.  If  one  would  appreciate  at  once 
their  idiomatic  quality  and  the  exquisite  skill  of  their 
})hrasing,  one  cannot  do  better  than  try  to  alter  a 
word  or  a  syllable  anywhere.  In  one  place  Mr.  Tyler 
has  tried.  The  second  line  of  the  146th  sonnet  is 
corrupt,  reading  thus  :  — 

"  Poor  soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth, 
My  sinful  earth  these  rebel  powers  that  thee  array." 

Clearly  my  sinful  earth  in  the  second  line  is  a  printer's 
error.  Trying  to  correct  it,  Mr.  Tyler  has  suggested 
two  words  which  apparently  fit  the  meaning,  and  has 
made  the  line  read 

"  [Why  feed'st]  these  rebel  powers  that  thee  array  ?  " 

Though  one  cannot  suggest  an  improvement  on  this 
emendation,  one  cannot  resist  a  conviction  that  the 
man  who  wrote  the  rest  of  the  sonnet  could  never 
have  written  these  two  syllables.  The  example,  if 
extreme,  is  typical  of  the  style  throughout.  No- 
where is  Shakspcre's  art  more  constantly  and  elabo- 
rately fine. 

Whatever  else  the  Soimets  reveal,  then,  they  surely 
reveal  the  temperament  of  an  artist,  —  a  temperament, 
as  we  have  seen,  which  is  not  only  exquisitely  sensi- 
tive to  emotional  impressions,  but  is  bound  to  find 
the  best  relief  from  the  suffering  of  such  sensitive- 


228  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

ness  ill  deliberate,  studied  expression  of  it.  "Who- 
ever, at  moments  of  intense  feeling,  has  felt  compelled 
to  scribble  doggerel,  and  consequently  —  however  piti- 
ful his  verse  —  has  felt  better,  must  have  at  least  an 
inkling  of  what  such  a  temperament  is. 

Not  the  least  peculiar  trait  of  it  is  one  which,  though 
not  generally  appreciated,  goes  far  to  explain  the  great 
emotional  relief  afforded  by  even  comically  inadequate 
expression.  To  phrase  an  emotional  mood  an  artist 
must,  as  it  were,  cut  his  nature  in  two.  With  part  of 
himself  he  must  cling  to  the  mood  in  question,  or  at 
least  revive  it  at  will.  With  another  part  of  himself  he 
must  deliberately  withdraw  from  the  mood,  observe  it, 
criticise  it,  and  carefully  seek  the  vehicle  of  expression 
which  shall  best  serve  to  convey  it  to  other  minds 
than  his  own.  The  self  who  speaks,  in  short,  is  not 
quite  the  self  whom  he  would  discuss.  To  put  the 
matter  otherwise,  an  artist  must  sometimes  be  almost 
conscious  of  what  modern  psychologists  would  call 
double  personality.  To  put  it  differently  still,  every 
art  of  expression  involves  a  fundamental  use  of  the 
art  which  is  in  least  repute,  —  the  histrionic.  The 
lyric  poet  must  first  experience  his  emotion,  must  then 
abstract  himself  from  it,  —  thereby  relieving  himself 
considerably,  —  and  finally  must  imaginatively  and 
critically  revive  it  at  will.  Undoubtedly  this  process 
is  not  always  conscious.  Beyond  question,  remark- 
able artistic  effects  are  sometimes  produced  by  methods 
w^hich  seem  to  the  artist  spontaneous.  Such  effects, 
however,  wonderful  though  they  be,  are  in  a  sense 


SHAKSPERE'S   SONNETS  229 

rather  accidental  than  masterly ;  and  whatever  else 
the  art  of  Shaksi)cre's  Sonnets  may  be  called,  it  is 
beyond  doubt  masterly,  not  accidental. 

Granting  all  this,  however,  we  may  still  be  sure  that 
even  deliberate,  conscious,  fundamentally  histrionic  art 
can  express  nothing  beyond  what  the  artist  has  known. 
His  knowledge  may  come  from  his  own  experience  ;  or 
from  the  experience  of  others  whom  he  has  watched  ; 
or  from  experiences  recorded  in  history  or  in  litera- 
ture ;  or  even  from  the  vividly  imagined  experiences 
of  creatures  whom  he  himself  has  invented.  Actually 
or  sympathetically,  however,  he  must  somehow  have 
known  the  moods  which  he  expresses.  In  the  sense, 
then,  that  what  any  artist  expresses  must  somehow 
have  formed  a  part  of  his  mental  life,  all  art  may  be 
called  self-revealing,  autobiographic. 

Shakspere's  Sonnets,  then,  may  teach  us  truth 
about  Shakspere ;  for  what  they  express,  in  terms  of 
emotional  moods,  cannot  be  much  questioned.  The 
real  doubt,  after  all,  concerns  only  what  caused  these 
moods ;  and  that  is  a  question  rather  of  gossip  and  of 
scandal,  of  impertinent  curiosity,  than  of  criticism. 
What  the  Sonnets  surely  express  —  what  no  criticism 
can  take  from  us  —  is  the  eagerness,  the  restlessness, 
the  eternally  sweet  suffering  of  a  lover  whose  love  is 
of  this  world.  Love,  sacred  or  profane,  idealizes  its 
object.  If  this  object  be  earthly  or  human,  experience 
must  finally  shatter  the  ideal.  Religion  is  a  certainty 
only  because  the  object  of  its  love  is  a  pure  ideal, 
which  nothing  but  change  of  faith  can  alter.     So  long 


230  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

as  any  human  being  cares  passionately  for  anything 
not  purely  ideal,  so  long  will  he  surely  find  life  tragic. 

The  lasting  tragedy  of  earthly  love,  then,  is  what 
the  Sonnets  phrase  ;  and  this  they  phrase  in  no  imper- 
sonal terms,  but  rather  in  the  language  of  one  whose 
temperament,  as  you  grow  year  by  year  to  know  it 
better,  stands  out  as  individual  as  any  in  literature. 
To  define  a  temperament  thus  known,  however,  is  no 
easy  matter.  At  best  one  may  hope,  by  specifying  a 
few  typical  phases  and  expressions  of  it,  to  suggest 
some  inkling  of  the  lasting,  strengthening  impression 
of  Shakspere's  individuality  which  grows  on  whoever 
knows  the  Sonnets  well. 

Recall,  if  you  will,  the  111th  Sonnet,i 

"  0,  for  my  sake  do  you  with  Fortune  chide," 

and  compare  with  it  the  29th  and  the  30th :  — 

XXIX. 

*'  When,  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 
I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state 
And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless  cries 
And  look  upon  myself  and  curse  my  fate, 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 
Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possess'd, 
Desiring  this  man's  art  and  that  man's  scope, 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least; 
Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 
Haply  I  think  on  thee,  and  then  my  state, 
Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate; 
For  thy  sweet  love  remember'd  such  wealth  brings 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings. 

1  See  p.  46. 


SHAKSPERE'S   SONNETS  231 


XXX. 

'*  When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 
I  summon  u]i  remembrance  of  things  past, 
I  sij,'h  the  hick  of  many  a  thing  I  sought. 
And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's  waste: 
Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow, 
For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night, 
And  weep  afresh  love's  long  since  cancell'd  woe, 
And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanish 'd  sight: 
Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone. 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 
The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 
Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before. 

But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 

All  losses  are  restored  and  sorrows  end." 

These  are  more  than  enough  to  express  a  nature  of 
great  natural  delicacy,  passionately  sensitive  at  once 
to  the  charm  of  a  personal  fascination,  and  to  the 
inexhaustible  pain  which  must  come  from  surround- 
ings essentially  base.^ 

Other  sonnets  show  a  temperament  equally  sensitive 
to  the  spiritual  miseries  which  chasten  a  passionate 
animal  nature  :  — • 

CXXIX. 

"  The  expense  of  spirit  in  a  waste  of  shame 
Is  lust  in  action;  and  till  action,  lust 
Is  perjured,  murderous,  bloody,  full  of  blame, 
Savage,  extreme,  rude,  cruel,  not  to  trust, 
Enjoy'd  no  sooner,  but  despised  straight, 
Past  reason  hunted,  and  no  sooner  had 
Past  reason  hated,  as  a  swallow'd  bait 
On  purpose  laid  to  make  the  taker  mad ; 

*  See  pp.  40-44. 


232  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

Mad  in  pursuit  and  in  possession  so  ; 

Had,  having,  and  in  quest  to  have,  extreme  ; 

A  bliss  in  proof,  and  proved,  a  very  woe  ; 

Before,  a  joy  proposed ;  behind,  a  dream. 

All  this  the  world  well  knows;  yet  none  knows  well 
To  shun  the  heaven  that  leads  men  to  this  hell. 


cxxx. 

**  My  mistress*  eyes  are  nothing  like  the  sun; 
Coral  is  far  more  red  than  her  lips'  red; 
If  snow  be  white,  why  then  her  breasts  are  dun; 
If  hair  be  wires,  black  wires  grow  on  her  head. 
I  have  seen  roses  damask'd,  red  and  white, 
But  no  such  roses  see  I  in  her  cheeks  ; 
And  in  some  perfumes  is  there  more  delight 
Than  in  the  breath  that  from  my  mistress  reeks. 
I  love  to  hear  her  speak,  yet  well  I  know 
That  music  hath  a  far  more  pleasing  sound; 
I  grant  I  never  saw  a  goddess  go; 
My  mistress,  when  she  walks,  treads  on  the  ground : 

And  yet,  by  heaven,  I  think  my  love  as  rare 

As  any  she  belied  with  false  compare." 

The  bitter  irony  of  that  sonnet  is  not,  perhapSj 
always  appreciated. 

With  all  this  sensitiveness  to  actual  fact,  the  man 
remained  profoundly  metaphysical.  At  least  he  was 
constantly  and  instinctively,  if  not  quite  consciously, 
aware  of  the  evanescence  of  all  earthly  phenomena, 
and  of  the  real  certainty  of  analytic  idealism.  For  a 
})lain  expression  of  the  first  of  these  traits,  the  follow- 
ing sonnets  will  serve  :  — 


SHAKSPEKE'S   SONNETS  233 


LXIV. 

**  When  I  have  seen  by  Time's  fell  band  defaced 

The  rich  proud  cost  of  outworn  buried  aj^e; 
When  .sometime  lofty  towers  1  see  dowu-razed 
And  brass  eternal  slave  to  mortal  rage ; 
When  I  have  seen  tlie  hungry  ocean  gain 
Advantage  on  the  kingdom  of  the  shore, 
And  the  firm  soil  win  of  tlie  watery  main, 
Increasing  store  with  loss,  and  loss  with  store; 
When  I  have  seen  such  interchange  of  state, 
Or  state  itself  conl'ounded  to  decay ; 
Ruin  hath  tauglit  me  thus  to  ruminate, 
That  Time  will  come  and  take  my  love  away. 
This  thought  is  as  a  death,  which  cannot  choose 
But  weep  to  have  that  which  it  fears  to  lose. 


LXV. 

"  Since  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  earth,  nor  boundless  sea, 
But  sad  mortality  o'er-sways  their  power. 
How  with  this  rage  shall  beauty  hold  a  plea, 
Whose  action  is  no  stronger  than  a  flower  ? 
0,  how  shall  summer's  honey  breath  hold  out 
Against  the  wreckful  siege  of  battering  days. 
When  rocks  impregnable  are  not  so  stout. 
Nor  gates  of  steel  so  strong,  but  Time  decays  ? 
0,  fearful  meditation  !  where,  alack, 
Shall  Time's  best  jewel  from  Time's  chest  lie  hid  ? 
Or  what  strong  hand  can  hold  his  swift  foot  back  ? 
Or  who  his  spoil  of  beauty  can  forljid  I 
0,  none,  unless  this  miracle  have  might, 
That  in  black  ink  my  love  may  still  shine  bright. 

1  Cf.  Sonnet  81,  p.  223. 


234  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

That  all  the  while  he  knew  the  consolations  of 
analytic  idealism  we  may  be  sure  from  such  sonnets 
as  these :  — 

LXXIII. 

"  That  time  of  year  thou  mayst  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang. 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  twilight  of  such  day, 
As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west, 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest. 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  glowing  of  such  fire 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie. 
As  the  death- bed  whereon  it  must  expire 
Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourish'd  by. 

This  thou  perceivest,  which  makes  thy  love  more  strong, 
To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long. 

LXXIV. 

"  But  be  contented  :  when  that  fell  arrest 

Without  all  bail  shall  carry  me  away, 

My  life  hath  in  this  line  some  interest. 

Which  for  memorial  still  with  thee  shall  stay. 

When  thou  reviewest  this,  thou  dost  review 

The  very  part  was  consecrate  to  thee : 

The  earth  can  have  but  earth,  which  is  his  due ; 

My  spirit  is  thine,  the  better  part  of  me  : 

So  then  thou  hast  but  lost  the  dregs  of  life. 

The  prey  of  worms,  my  body  being  dead. 

The  coward  conquest  of  a  wretch's  knife, 

Too  base  of  thee  to  be  remembered. 

The  worth  of  that  is  that  which  it  containt. 
And  that  is  this,  and  this  with  thee  remains." 


STIAKSPERE'S  SONNETS  235 

All   his   metaphysics,    however,   could    not    make 
actual  life  momentarily  unreal : 

LXVI. 

"  Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I  cry, 

As,  to  behold  desert  a  beggar  born, 

And  needy  nothing  triium'd  in  jollity, 

And  purest  faith  unhappily  forsworn, 

And  gilded  honour  shamefully  misplaced, 

And  maiden  virtue  rudely  strumpeted, 

And  right  perfection  wrongfully  disgraced. 

And  strength  by  limping  sway  disabled, 

And  art  made  tongue-tied  by  authority. 

And  folly  doctor-like  controlling  skill. 

And  simple  truth  miscall'd  simplicity. 

And  captive  good  attending  captain  ill : 

Tired  with  all  these,  from  these  would  I  be  gone, 
Save  that,  to  die,  I  leave  my  love  alone." 

xc. 

"  Then  hate  me  when  thou  wilt  ;  if  ever,  now ; 
Now,  while  the  world  is  bent  my  deeds  to  cross. 
Join  with  the  spite  of  fortune,  make  me  bow, 
And  do  not  drop  in  for  an  after-loss  : 
Ah,  do  not,  when  my  heart  hath  'scaped  this  sorrow, 
Come  in  the  rearward  of  a  conquer'd  woe  ; 
Give  not  a  windy  night  a  rainy  morrow, 
To  linger  out  a  purposed  overthrow. 
If  thou  wilt  leave  me,  do  not  leave  me  last, 
When  other  petty  griefs  have  done  their  spite, 
But  in  the  onset  come ;  so  shall  I  taste 
At  first  the  very  worst  of  fortune's  might, 

And  other  strains  of  woe,  which  now  seem  woe, 
Compared  with  loss  of  thee  will  not  seem  so." 


236  WILLIAM   SIIAKSPERE 

With  less  direct  quotation  it  would  hardly  have 
been  possible  to  define  the  generalities  which  attempted 
to  name  some  of  the  leading  personal  traits  of  Shaks- 
pere,  as  thej'  appear  in  the  Sonnets.  Nor  without 
much  quotation  could  another  of  his  characteristic 
traits  have  been  made  clear.  The  deep  depression,  the 
acute  suffering,  the  fierce  passion  which  should  nor- 
mally result  from  what  we  have  seen,  Shakspere  seems 
fully  to  have  known.  Instead  of  expressing  it,  how- 
ever, in  such  wild  outbursts  as  one  might  naturally 
expect,  he  displays  throughout  a  power  of  self-mas- 
tery, which  gives  his  every  utterance,  no  matter  how 
passionate,  the  beauty  of  restrained  and  mastered 
artistic  form.  A  form  not  in  itself  beautiful,  one 
grows  to  feel,  must,  for  its  very  want  of  beauty,  have 
been  inadequate  to  phrase  the  full  emotion  which  such 
a  nature  felt. 

The  Sonnets,  then,  alter  any  conception  of  Shaks- 
pere's  individuality  which  might  spring  from  the  plays 
we  have  read.  Even  though  they  tell  nothing  of  the 
facts  of  his  life,  the  Sonnets  imply  very  much  concern- 
ing the  inner  truth  of  it.  No  one,  surely,  could  have 
written  these  poems  without  a  temperament  in  every 
sense  artistic,  and  a  consciously  mastered  art.  Nor 
could  any  one  have  expressed  such  emotion  and  such 
passion  as  underlie  the  Sonnets  without  a  knowledge 
of  suffering  which  no  sane  poise  could  lighten,  like 
that  of  the  chronicle-histories  ;  nor  any  such  cheerful 
sanity,  or  such  robust  irony  as  the  comedies  express  ; 
nor  any  such  sentimental  sense  of  tragedy  as  makes 


SHAKSPERE'S   SONNETS  237 

Romeo  and  Juliet  perennially  lovely.  Whoever  wrote 
the  Sonnets  must  have  known  the  depths  of  spiritual 
suffering;  nor  yet  have  known  how  to  emerge  from 
them.  Such  a  Shaksperc,  unlike  what  we  have  known 
hitherto,  is  not  unlike  th.^  Shakspere  who  will  reveal 
himself  in  the  plays  to  come. 


IX 


THE  PLAYS  OF  SHAKSPERE,  FROM  JULIUS  C^SAR 
TO   CORIOLANUS 

I. 

The  plays  to  be  discussed  in  this  chapter  differ  from 
what  have  preceded  somewhat  as  the  plays  from  the 
Midsummer  NigMs  Dream  to  Twelfth  Night  differed 
from  the  plays  discussed  before  them.  This  first 
group,  —  from  Titus  Andronicus  to  the  Ttvo  Gentle- 
men of  Verona,  —  which  probably  occupied  the  first 
six  years  of  Shakspere's  professional  life,  were  chiefly 
experimental.  The  second  group,  which  probably  oc- 
cupied the  next  seven  years  of  his  professional  life, 
were  all  more  or  less  alive  with  the  surging  forces  of 
artistic  impulse  and  creative  imagination ;  none  of 
them,  however,  necessarily  implied  profound  spiritual 
experience.  The  group  to  which  we  now  come,  which 
probably  occupied  tlie  years  between  1600  and  1608, 
mark  a  distinct  development  in  Shakspere's  artistic 
character. 

That  the  development  which  we  are  trying  to  follow 
is  rather  artistic  tlian  personal,  however,  we  cannot  too 
strenuously  keep  in  mind.  The  details  of  Shakspere's 
private  life,  quite  undiscoverable  nowadays,  are,  after 


JULIUS  CiESAR  239 

all,  no  one's  business.  For  the  rest,  nobody  familiar 
with  the  literature  and  the  stage  of  his  time  can  very 
seriously  believe  that  in  writing  his  plays  he  generally 
meant  to  be  philosophic,  ethical,  didactic.  Like  any 
other  playwright,  he  made  plays  for  audiences.  He 
differed  from  other  playwrights  chiefly  in  the  fervid 
depth  of  his  artistic  nature.  The  circumstances  of  his 
life,  meanwhile,  made  the  stage  his  normal  vehicle  of 
artistic  expression, —  the  vent  for  such  emotional  dis- 
turbance as  unexpressed  would  have  become  intoler- 
able. The  subjects  which  he  chose,  or  which  were 
given  him,  in  short,  connecting  themselves  with  the 
fruit  of  his  actual  experience,  were  bound  to  throw 
him  into  specific  emotional  moods.  These  moods  he 
was  forced,  by  the  laws  of  his  nature,  to  infuse  into 
the  plays  which  he  was  writing,  just  as  Marlowe  had 
more  simply  and  more  instantly  infused  imaginative 
feeling  into  his  tragedies  ten  years  before.  What 
marks  the  personal  development  of  Shakspere  as  an 
artist,  then,  is  that  his  emotional  motives  suggest  a 
deepening  knowledge  of  life.  A  writer  who  had  never 
dreamed  of  such  sentiments  as  underlie  the  Sonnets, 
might  conceivably  have  written  all  the  plays  we  have 
considered  hitherto ;  he  could  not  have  written  the 
plays  which  are  to  come. 

A  study  of  Julius  Ccesar  will  serve  to  define  these 
generalizations. 


240  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 


II.     Julius  C^sar. 

[Julius  CcEsar  was  neither  entered  in  the  Stationers'  Register  nor 
published  until  the  folio  of  1623. 

Its  source  is  certainly  North's  Plutarch,  which  was  published  in 
1579;  the  general  substance  of  the  speech  of  Antony  over  Caesar's 
body  may  have  been  suggested  by  a  translation  of  Appian's  Chronicle 
of  the  Roman  Wars,  published  in  1578. 

Not  mentioned  by  Meres  in  1598,  Julius  Ccesar  is  distinctly  alluded 
to  in  the  following  stanza  from  Weever's  Mirror  of  Martyrs,  published 
in  1601 :  — 

"  The  many-headed  multitude  were  drawne 
By  Brutus  Bpeech,  that  Ccesar  was  ambitious, 
When  eloquent  Mark  Antonie  had  showne 
Hia  vertues,  who  but  Brutus  then  was  vicious  ? 
Man's  memorie,  with  new,  forgets  the  old, 
One  tale  is  good,  untill  another's  told." 

As  Mr.  Fleay  suggests,'  thereby  as  usual  throwing  light  on  the  essen- 
tially theatrical  nature  of  even  Shakspere's  most  masterly  work,  the 
speech  of  Polonius,^  :  — 

"  I  did  enact  Julius  Caesar  :  I  was  killed  i'  the  Capitol ;  Brutus  killed  me," 

probably  indicates  that  Julius  Ccesar  had  been  acted  shortly  before 
Hamlet,  and  that  the  audience  would  recognize  in  Polonius  the  actor 
who  had  played  Caesar. 

The  conjectural  date  generally  assigned  to  Julius  Ccesar  is  from 
1600  to  1601.] 

At   first   sight   Julius  Ccesar   impresses   you   as  a 

chronicle-history,  differing  from  what  have  preceded 

chiefly  in  the  fact  that  its  subject  is  not  English,  but 

Roman.     Even  though  when  the  conspirators  appear,' 

"  Their  hats  are  pluck'd  about  their  ears, 
And  half  their  faces  buried  in  their  cloakB," 

1  Life,  p.  214. 

2  Hamlet,  III.  ii.  108-9. 
«  II.  i.  73. 


JULIUS   C^SAR  -241 

and  though  in  the  midst  of  the  ensuing  scene  the 
clock  strike  three,^  one  never  thinks  of  anything  in  this 
play  as  modern.  With  complete  disregard  of  archaeo- 
logical detail,  Shakspere  conceived  his  characters 
throughout  in  a  manner  so  true  to  the  spirit  of 
Plutarch  that  one  might  almost  select  Julius  Coesar 
as  a  model  exposition  of  the  temper  which  tradition 
assigns  to  Roman  antiquity. 

Almost  immediately,  however,  any  one  familiar  with 
the  Elizabethan  stage  finds  in  Julius  Ccesar  a  marked 
likeness  to  another  kind  of  play  than  chronicle-history. 
As  Mr.  Fleay  points  out,^  many  of  the  tragedies  of 
blood  were  in  two  parts:  Marston's  Antonio  and  Mel- 
lida^  Chapman's  Bussy  d^Ambois,  Kyd's  Jeronymo,  are 
familiar  examples.  In  the  first  part,  the  hero  meets 
his  fate  ;  in  the  second,  he  is  revenged,  with  the  approv- 
ing consent  of  his  visible  ghost.^  This  is  just  what 
happens  in  Julius  Ccesar.  The  first  three  acts  consti- 
tute Ccesar' s  Tragedy,  the  last  two,  Ccesar^s  Revenge. 
So  marked  is  this  that  Mr.  Fleay  finds  reason  to  believe 
the  play  as  we  have  it  to  be  a  condensed  version  of 
what  were  originally  two. 

Without  accepting  this  opinion,  we  may  at  least  de- 
clare it  plausible ;  for  surely  the  effect  of  Julius  Ccesar 
is  radically  unlike  anything  else  we  have  met.  An 
interesting  view  of  it  is  stated  in  a  note  by  Mr. 
Young:* — 

1  Ibid.  192.  '  Life,  p.  215.  »  See  p.  252. 

*  Whose  kindness  ia  acknowledged  in  the  introductory  Note  to  this 
book. 


242  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

"  It  is  a  piece  of  transitional  art,  a  hybrid  between  the 
chronicle-histories  and  the  great  tragedies.  It  has  neither 
the  lack  of  artistic  or  ethical  significance  characteristic  of 
the  former,  nor  is  it,  like  the  latter,  dominated  by  a  single 
great  character  only.  While  it  has  all  the  unity  of  interest 
distinguishing  the  tragedies,  it  gets  it,  not  by  means  of  a 
single  informing  idea  of  artistic  or  ethical  significance,  but 
by  employing  a  masterly  technique  in  the  service  of  a 
chronicle-history  motive,  to  tell  just  what  had  happened." 

Suggestive  as  this  opinion  must  be,  it  does  not  quite 
emphasize  the  full  divergence  of  Julius  Ccesar  from 
the  English  chronicle-histories.  These  are  generally 
obvious  dramatic  versions  of  the  narratives  which  they 
represent.  Even  though  all  the  substance  of  Julius 
Ccesar,  however,  and  all  its  essential  unity  be  trace- 
able to  Plutarch,  no  treatment  of  Plutarch's  material 
could  be  much  less  obvious  than  Shakspere's.  From 
Plutarch,  to  be  sure,  he  selects  his  incidents  with  the 
skill  in  choice  of  what  is  dramatically  effective,  which 
he  has  learned  by  thirteen  years  of  writing  for  the 
stage.  This  is  not  all,  though  ;  he  selects  not  incidents 
which  should  tell  the  recorded  story  of  Caesar,  but  inci- 
dents which  give  that  story  a  new  and  very  significant 
character.  To  understand  Julius  Ccesar,  in  short,  we 
must  appreciate  that  when  Shakspere  read  Plutarch, 
the  narrative  awakened  in  him  a  definite  state  of  feel- 
ing ;  this  state  of  feeling,  as  well  as  the  facts  which 
awakened  it,  he  was  bound  as  an  artist  to  express. 

Easy  to  appreciate,  this  feeling  is  not  easy  to  define. 
One  can  point  out  the  technical  devices,  or  situations, 


JULIUS   C/ESAR  243 

or  motives  which  help  to  compose  or  to  express  it.  One 
can  show  how  the  motive  of  self-deception,  already  so 
effectively  used  in  comedy,  really  underlies  the  con- 
ception of  Caesar  and  of  Brutus  alike.  One  can  show 
how  the  mob,  far  more  seriously  treated  than  the  mob 
in  Henry  VI.,^  develops  and  emphasizes  the  distrust 
of  the  rampant,  headless,  brainless  populace  to  which, 
at  least  as  an  artist,  Shakspere  was  surely  sensitive. 
One  can  compare  the  ghost  of  Caesar  with  the  bogies 
of  Richard  III.^  and  show  how  these  are  little  better 
than  nursery  goblins,  while  the  spirit  of  Caesar  has 
a  touch  of  such  actuality  as  in  one  mood  makes  one 
remember  the  tales  of  Nemesis,  and  in  another  recalls 
the  proceedings  of  the  Society  for  Psychic  Research. 
Yet  all  this  does  not  help  us  far.  Unsatisfactory 
though  the  phrase  be,  there  is  perhaps  no  more  exact 
term  for  the  underlying  mood  of  Julius  Ccesar  than 
unpassionately  ironical. 

In  Julius  Ccesar  human  affairs  have  broken  loose 
from  human  control.  Csesar  himself,  though  to  his 
own  mind  almost  divinely  supreme,  is  only  a  passing 
incarnation  of  the  political  force  everywhere  surely, 
miserably  inherent  in  the  folly-stricken  populace. 
The  extinction  of  his  person  does  not  so  much  as 
trouble  this  force.  Other  Caesars  shall  come,  and 
others  still ;  all,  like  the  great  Caesar,  to  be  the  sport 
of  fate.  Yet  those  who  wish  for  better  things  and 
nobler  are  just  as  powerless.     Brutus,  let  him  think 

1  Compare  III.  ii.  with  2  Henry  VI.,  IV.  ii.-viii. 
«  IV.  iii.  275  seq. ;  cf.  Rich.  III.  V.  iii.  118  seq. 


244  WILLIAM    SHAKSPERE 

as  he  will  that  he  acts  freely,  is  rather  passively 
swept  on  to  the  end  which  now,  as  then  and  ever, 
must  await  those  fervent  idealists,  born  after  their 
moment,  who  passionately  love  the  traditional  virtues 
of  an  olden  time.  What  is  best  in  human  nature  is 
as  powerless  as  the  puppets  who  deem  themselves 
potent,  except,  perhaps,  that  it  redeems  and  ennobles 
character.  Men  may  still  be  great;  but  great  or 
small,  they  can  actually  do  nothing.  Nowhere  is  the 
world-old  cry  of  the  stricken  idealist  against  the  un- 
conquerable progress  of  vile,  overwhelming  fact  more 
despairingly  uttered  than  by  Brutus  i^ 

"O,  Julius  Csesar,  thou  art  mighty  yet ! 
Thy  spirit  walks  abroad,  and  turns  our  swords 
In  our  own  proper  entrails." 

Such  effort  as  this  to  expound  an  artist's  mood  must 
always  run  a  double  risk  of  misleading.  You  may 
seem,  on  the  one  hand,  to  be  stating  personal  con- 
victions, or,  on  the  other,  to  assert  that  the  artist  criti- 
cised was  preaching.  One  cannot  repeat  too  often, 
then,  that  a  critic's  chief  business  is  not  to  air  his 
own  views,  but  to  define  those  of  the  artist  he  dis- 
cusses ;  and  that  so  far  as  the  artist  is  concerned,  he 
need  never  have  abstractly  formulated  his  views  at  all. 
The  artist,  indeed,  has  done  his  work  if  he  have  but 
felt  his  mood  and  expressed  it.  From  all  the  fore- 
going attempt  to  analyze  the  mood  of  Julius  CcBuary 
then,  nobody   need   infer   anything   more  than   that 

1  V.  iii.  94.  -^' 


JULIUS   C^SAR  245 

Shakspere's  subject  made  him  feel  in  a  specific  way. 
Such  analysis  of  that  feeling  as  we  have  attempted 
would  probably  have  been  quite  foreign  to  him.  For 
all  that,  such  analysis  is  helpful  to  those  who  nowa- 
days would  try  to  share  his  feeling. 

The  mood  which  underlies  Julius  Ccesar  is  analo- 
gous to  the  lighter  but  still  serious  mood  which  we 
found  to  underlie  Much  Ado  About  Nothing}  Deeper 
though  the  mood  of  Julius  Ccesar  be,  however,  it 
never  becomes  passionate,  overmastering.  No  trait 
of  Julius  Ccesar^  in  short,  is  more  characteristic  than 
what,  in  the  broadest  sense  of  the  word,  may  be 
called  its  style.  This  is  never  overburdened  with 
such  a  rush  of  thought  and  emotion,  such  a  bewil- 
dering range  of  perception,  as  should  overwhelm  or 
confuse  it.  Nowhere  is  Shakspere's  power  more 
surely  poised  than  here ;  nowhere  is  his  touch  more 
firm  and  masterly ;  nowhere  do  vivid  incidents,  indi- 
vidual characters,  marvellously  plausible  background 
or  atmosphere,  blend  in  a  verbal  style  at  once  stronger 
and  more  limpid. 

The  sense  of  fate  displayed  in  Julius  Ccesar  war- 
rants, for  want  of  a  better  word,  the  term  ironical ; 
the  cool  mastery  of  style  throughout  warrants  the 
term  unpassionate.  Unpassionately  ironical,  then, 
we  may  call  the  play.  As  unpassionate,  it  has  much 
in  common  with  the  plays  which  we  have  read  before. 
In  none  of  tiiese,  for  all  their  beauty,  their  energy, 
their  power,  has  there  been  a  surge  of  thought  or  feel- 

i  See  p.  194. 


246  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

ing  which  has  overwhelmed,  overburdened  the  style. 
Rather,  Shakspere's  style  has  been  constantly  freeing 
itself  from  the  excessive  ingenuity  of  the  older  days ; 
and  with  all  the  flexibility  which  only  such  ingenuity 
could  fully  have  developed,  it  has  been  growing  more 
and  more  nearly  identical  with  the  thought  it  would 
phrase.  Here,  at  last,  with  full  mastery,  Shakspere 
uses  his  superb,  unpassionate  style  to  express  a  mood 
which  allies  Julius  Ccesar  to  what  is  coming  as  surely 
as  that  style  allies  it  to  what  is  past.  For,  far  beyond 
any  other  play  we  have  as  yet  considered,  Julius  Ccesar 
involves  a  sense  of  the  lasting  irony  of  history,  —  an 
understanding  of  the  blind  fate  which  must  always 
seem  to  make  men  its  sport. 


in.    All's  Well  That  Ends  Well. 

[Like  Julius  Ccesar,  All 's  Well  That  Ends  Well  was  first  entered  in 
1623,  and  first  published  in  the  folio. 

Its  source  is  clearly  the  story  of  Giletta  of  Narbona  in  Paynter's 
Palace  of  Pleasure- 
As  to  its  origin  and  general  date  there  has  been  much  discussion. 
From  the  clearly  early  character  of  some  passages,  as  well  as  from  the 
general  character  of  the  story,  many  critics  have  been  disposed  to  think 
this  play  a  comparatively  late  revision  of  the  Love's  Labour's  Won 
mentioned  by  Meres.  Mr.  Fleay,  while  admitting  the  obviously  early 
passages  to  be  old,  is  of  opinion  that  if  any  play  is  to  be  recognized  as 
Love's  Labour  's  Won,  it  is  probably  not  this  one,  but  rather  Much  Ado 
About  Nothing.^  The  question  can  never  be  defiuitely  settled.  From 
the  general  character  of  the  style  in  the  later  parts  of  All 's  Well  That 
Ends  Well,  however,  critics  substantially  agree  in  assigning  the  play 
in  its  present  form  to  about  1601.] 

1  Life,  pp.  204,  216. 


ALL'S   WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL  247 

A  short  extract  from  Airs  Well  That  Ends  Well 
will  illustrate  the  incongruity  of  its  style.  In  the 
scene  where  Helena  is  presented  to  the  King,  the  dia- 
logue proceeds  as  follows  :  ^  — 

"  King.  I  say  we  must  not 

So  stain  our  judgment,  or  corrupt  our  hope, 
To  prostitute  our  past-cure  malady 
To  empirics,  or  to  dissever  so 
Our  great  self  and  our  credit,  to  esteem 
A  senseless  help  when  help  past  sense  we  deem. 

Hel.    My  duty  then  shall  pay  me  for  my  pains: 
I  will  no  more  enforce  mine  office  on  you; 
Humbly  entreating  from  your  royal  thoughts 
A  modest  one,  to  bear  me  back  again. 

King.    I  cannot  give  thee  less,  to  be  call'd  grateful: 
Thou  thought  'st  to  help  me  ;  and  such  thanks  I  give 
As  one  near  death  to  those  that  toish  him  live  : 
But  what  at  full  I  know,  thou  know'st  no  part, 
I  knovnng  all  my  peril,  thou  no  art. 

Hel.    What  I  can  do  can  do  no  hurt  to  try. 
Since  you  set  up  your  rest  'gainst  remedy. 
He  that  of  greatest  works  is  finisher 
Oft  does  them  by  the  weakest  minister,'^  etc. 

The  lines  italicized  in  this  passage  are  clearly  in  a 
manner  quite  as  early  as  that  of  Love's  Labour's  Lost, 
which  we  assigned  to  1589.  The  other  lines  are  in 
a  manner  common  with  Shakspere  twelve  years  later. 
Though  the  latter  predominate  in  AlVs  Well  That 
Ends  Well,  there  is  enough  of  the  former  to  give  the 
play  unmistakable  oddity  of  effect,  and  to  make  its 
style  in  detail  a  favorite  matter  of  study  to  those  who 
love  linguistics. 

•   II.  i.  122-UO. 


248  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

Distinct  in  effect  from  any  of  the  other  comedies, 
on  account  of  this  palpable  incongruity  of  style,  All '» 
Well  That  Unds  Well  resembles  them  in  its  general 
economy  of  invention.  The  main  situation  —  of  a 
woman  making  love  to  a  man  —  occurs  both  in  the 
relations  of  Phoebe  to  Rosalind  in  As  You  Like  It, 
and  in  those  of  Olivia  to  Viola  in  Ttvelfth  Night.  The 
device  by  which  Helena  finally  secures  her  husband  is 
clearly  repeated  in  Measure  for  Measure,  while  the 
business  of  the  ring  is  repeated  from  the  last  act  of 
the  Merchant  of  Venice.  Parolles  is  a  curious  combi- 
nation of  Pistol  and  Falstaff ;  his  relations  to  Bertram 
being  almost  a  repetition  of  Falstaff 's  to  the  Prince. 
Helena's  original  scheme  involves  considerable  self- 
deception  ;  her  final  stratagem  involves  mistaken  iden- 
tity. The  further  we  look,  in  short,  the  more  familiar 
matter  we  find. 

Whether  All 's  Well  That  Ends  Well  be  a  revision 
of  Love's  Labour  's  Won,  or  not,  then,  it  is  clearly  a 
play  of  which  part  was  made  early,  and  part  late  ; 
a  play,  too,  where  the  later  part  has  many  traces  of 
Shakspere's  general  manner  about  1601.  We  may 
fairly  guess,  accordingly,  that  if  the  play  were  ever 
finished  in  its  older  form,  it  may  probably  have 
expressed  no  more  serious  view  of  life  than  the 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  whose  motive  is  remotely 
similar.  The  passages  which  give  it  more  signifi- 
cance are  almost  all  in  the  later  style. 

While  its  incongruity  and  consequent  lack  of  finish 
make  AlVs  Well  That  Ends  Well  a  clearly  less  serious 


ALL'S   WELL   THAT  ENDS  WELL  249 

work  of  art  than  the  plays  near  which  we  place  it, 
the  mood  which  it  expresses  deserves  our  full  atten- 
tion. Up  to  this  point  when  Shakspere  has  dealt 
with  love,  he  has  always  been  romantic.  He  has 
shown  us  some  rather  worthless  lovers,  to  be  sure  • 
Proteus  is  highly  unsympathetic ;  Romeo,  for  all  his 
charm,  is  neither  vigorous  nor  constant ;  and  Bassa- 
nio,  when  we  analyze  his  conduct,  is  anything  but 
heroic.  Throughout  Shakspere's  love-scenes,  in  fact, 
we  have  trace  after  trace  of  some  such  fascinating, 
volatile  youth  as  seems  to  have  inspired  the  first  series 
of  sonnets.  Of  all  the  lot,  however,  none  is  more  vola- 
tile and  less  fascinating,  none  more  pitifully  free 
from  romantic  heroism,  than  Bertram.  What  makes 
All '«  Well  That  Ends  Well  notable  for  us,  in  short, 
is  that  its  love  passages  plainly  reveal  a  sense  of  the 
mysterious  mischiefs  which  must  flourish  in  this  world 
as  long  as  men  are  men  and  women  are  women.  So 
remote  is  this  mood  from  the  old  one  of  romantic 
sentiment  or  romantic  happiness  that  for  all  the 
romantic  fidelity  of  Helena  to  her  worthless  husband, 
one  feels  Shakspere  to  be  treating  the  fact  of  love 
with  a  cynical  irony  almost  worthy  of  a  modern 
Frenchman. 

Even  though  All '«  Well  That  Ends  Well  be  perhaps, 
then,  like  the  Richards  and  the  Merry  Wives  of  Wind- 
sor, the  careless  work  of  a  moment  or  of  moments 
when  Shakspere's  chief  energy  was  busy  elsewhere, 
it  is  significant  because  it  definitely  expresses  a  mood 
not  hitherto  found  in  his  plays.     Restless  one  feels 


250  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

this  mood,  unsettled,  unserene,  unbeautiful.  There 
is  no  other  work  of  Shakspere's  which  in  conception 
and  in  temper  seems  quite  so  corrupt  as  this,  where 
we  are  asked  to  give  our  full  sympathy  to  Bertram. 
There  are  other  works  of  Shakspere  which  are  more 
painful ;  there  are  none  less  pleasing,  none  on  which 
one  cares  less  to  dwell.  No  other,  however,  more 
clearly  reveals  a  sense  which,  as  distinctly  as  the 
sense  of  irony  which  we  found  in  Julius  Ccesar,  char- 
acterizes the  coming  work  of  Shakspere.  This  sense, 
abundantly  evident  in  the  Sonnets,  but  not  shown 
in  the  plays  we  have  read  before,  is  a  sense  of  the 
deplorable,  fascinating,  distracting  mystery  which 
throughout  human  history  is  involved  in  the  fact  of 
sexual  passion. 

The  irony  of  fate  underlies  the  mood  of  Julius 
Ccesar ;  under  the  mood  of  All 's  Well  That  Ends 
Well  lies  the  miserable  mystery  of  earthly  love. 
These  motives  jrft-  sliall  find  henceforth  again  and 
again.  »■•**- 


IV.     Hamlet. 

[The  Revenge  of  Hamlett  Prince  of  Denmark  was  entered  in  th» 
Stationers'  Register  on  .July  26th,  1602.  In  1G03  the  Tragicall  Histo- 
rle  of  Hamlet  Prince  of  Denmark  bi/  William  Shakespeare  was  pub- 
lished in  quarto.  This  obviously  imperfect  quarto  was  probably 
pirated.  Whether  it  represents  an  earlier  version  of  the  play  or  is 
a  mutilated  version  of  the  whole,  remains  uncertain.  In  1604  appeared 
a  second  quarto,  which  shows  the  play  in  substantially  its  final  form. 
There  were  subsequent  quartos  in  160.")  and  iu  1611,  Above  twent/ 
allusions  to  Hamlet  between  1604  and  1616  have  been  discovered. 


HAMLET  251 

There  is  evidence  that  a  play  on  this  subject,  which  Mr.  Fleay  bC' 
lieves  to  have  been  by  Kyd,  existed  as  early  as  1589.  What  relation 
this  old  play  bore  to  Sliakspere's,  and  whether  he  had  a  hand  in  it, 
remain  matters  of  dispute. 

The  story,  originally  told  by  Sa.xo  Grainmaticus,  a  thirteenth-centurj 
chronicle,  was  told  in  French  by  Belleforest,  of  whose  version  an  Eng- 
lish translation  was  puhlislied  in  1608.  This  trau.slatiou  very  probably 
existed  earlier. 

Conjectures  as  to  the  date  of  the  finished  play  range  from  1601  t<k 
1603.] 

By  common  verdict  —  a  different  thing  from  fact  — 
Hamlet  is  held  to  be  Shakspere's  masterpiece.  While 
thus  positively  to  grade  any  work  of  art^s  uncritical, 
we  may  safely  say  that  Hamlet  has  given  rise  to  more 
speculation,  to  a  wider  range  of  thought  and  com- 
ment, than  any  other  single  work  in  English  litera- 
ture. In  all  modern  literature,  indeed,  its  only  rival 
in  this  respect  is  Goethe's  Faust,  a  poem  not  yet  old 
enough  for  us  to  be  sure  of  its  permanent  character. 
Hamlet,  then,  stands  by  itself. 

In  spite  of  all  this  comment,  Hamlet  remains  a 
puzzle,  always  unsolved,  constantly  suggestive.  Critic 
after  critic  asks  what  it  means  ;  and  each  has  a  new 
answer.  There  are  endless  minor  questions,  too  :  was 
Hamlet  mad,  for  example  ?  was  Ophelia  chaste  ?  The 
mass  of  comment  grows  bewildering,  benumbing.  In 
despair,  one  puts  it  aside,  turning  straight  to  the  text ; 
for,  after  all,  the  chief  thing  is  not  that  we  should  de- 
fine the  play,  but  that  we  should  know  it ;  and  Ham- 
let is  a  play  which  everybody  ought  to  know.  It  is 
surely  the  work  in  English  Literature  to  which  allu- 
sions are  most  constant  and  most  widely  intelligible. 


252  WILLIAM   SIIAKSPERE 

Reading  it  again  and  again,  you  begin  to  find  that  you 
may  know  it  none  the  less  because,  for  all  your  read- 
ing, it  remains  inscrutable. 

Inscrutable  thougli  Mantlet  remain,  however,  certain 
facts  about  it  transpire  for  whoever  considers  it  coolly. 
To  begin  with,  in  origin  and  in  plot  it  is  clearly  a 
conventional  tragedy  of  blood :  the  old  king  has  been 
murdered ;  Polonius,  the  Queen,  the  King,  Laertes, 
and  Hamlet,  are  killed  on  the  stage ;  and  Ophelia, 
though  she  dies  out  of  sight,  is  buried  in  the  presence 
of  the  audience.  Again,  if  we  did  not  detect  the  fact 
for  ourselves,  the  very  title  of  the  entry  in  the  Station- 
ers' Register  —  the  Revenge  of  Hamlet,  etc. — would 
remind  us  that  the  play  belongs  to  that  class  of  trage- 
dies of  blood,  such  as  we  glanced  at  in  discussing 
Julius  Ccesar,  where  a  crime  is  revenged  by  the  in- 
tervention of  a  murdered  ghost.  Considered  as  an 
Elizabethan  play,  then,  Hamlet  is  substantially  con- 
ventional. 

Its  effect,  on  the  other  hand,  is  as  far  from  con- 
ventional as  possible.  While  retaining  traces  enough 
of  its  origin  to  remain  full  of  di'amatic  action,  it  carries 
on  this  action  not  like  the  old  tragedies  of  blood  and 
revenge  by  means  of  ranting  lay  figures,  but  by  means 
of  characters  as  individual  as  any  in  literature.  The 
individuality  of  these  characters,  however,  is  always 
subordinated  to  the  main  dramatic  motive  ;  one  reason 
why  things  happen  as  they  do  is  that  these  people  are 
temperamentally  just  what  they  are.  Nor  does  the 
subordination  of  detail  to  purpose  cease  here.     Sur- 


HAMLET  253 

prisingly  few  speeches  in  Hamlet  lack  dramatic  fitness  ; 
whatever  is  said  generally  helj)s  either  to  advance  the 
action  or  to  define  some  character  by  means  of  which 
the  action  is  advanced.  The  speeches,  then,  each 
having  its  proper  place  in  an  artistic  scheme,  are  not 
essentially  salient.  Despite  their  dramatic  fitness, 
though,  these  speeches  contain  so  many  final  phrases, 
and  such  a  wealth  of  aphorism,  that  the  stale  joke 
is  justified  which  declares  the  text  of  Hamlet  to  con- 
sist wholly  of  familiar  quotations.  This  wonderfully 
finished  detail  of  style,  an  infallible  symptom  of 
thoroughly  studied  art,  is  what  chiefly  gives  Ham- 
let the  suggestive,  mysterious  quality  which  we  all 
recognize. 

How  carefully  artistic  Hamlet  is,  and  at  the  same 
time  how  full  of  indications  that  it  is  only  a  develop- 
ment from  an  archaic  original  of  which  palpable  traces 
remain,  has  been  best  pointed  out,  perhaps,  in  a  study 
still  unpublished,  —  the  Sohier  Prize  Essay,  on  the 
Elizabethan  Hamlet,  written  in  1893,  by  Mr.  John 
Corbin,  of  Harvard  University.  How  the  original 
Ghost  was  wildly  ranting;  how  some  of  the  scenes 
which  puzzle  people  most,  such  as  the  great  scene 
between  Plamlet  and  Ophelia,^  may  best  be  under- 
stood wiien  we  realize  them  once  to  have  been  con- 
ventionally comic ;  how  Hamlet's  very  madness  was 
probably  intended  to  make  the  audience  laugh,  and  so 
on,  Mr,  Corbin  has  made  clear  in  a  way  which  must 
surely  be  recognized  when  his  essay  finally  appeara 

1  III.  i.  90-157. 


254  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

Something  of  the  process  by  which  the  final  form  of 
Hamlet  grew  may  be  guessed  by  comparing  the  per- 
manent version  with  Belieforest  and  with  the  quarto 
of  1603. 

In  Belieforest,  for  example,  the  lady  who  at  times 
answers  to  Ophelia  is  a  person  of  easy  morals,  em- 
ployed to  ferret  out  Hamlet's  secret  in  a  manner  which 
reminds  one  of  the  gossip  concerning  the  relations  of 
Fanny  EUsler  and  the  Due  de  Reichstadt.  In  Hamlet, 
by  a  refinement  of  taste  peculiar  to  Shakspere  among 
Elizabethan  dramatists,  much  of  this  situation  is  trans- 
ferred to  Rosencrantz  and  Guildenstern,  while  Ophelia 
retains  hardly  any  trace  of  her  origin.  In  the  quarto 
of  1603,  again,  Hamlet's  soliloquy,  and  his  great  scene 
with  Ophelia  occur  in  what  we  now  call  the  second  act, 
before  his  first  interview  with  Rosencrantz  and  Guil- 
denstern,!  instead  of  in  the  third  act,  where  their 
dramatic  effect  is  probably  greater.  Such  transposi- 
tion, however  and  whenever  made,  is  just  the  sort  of 
thing  which  occurs  when  any  novelist  or  dramatist  is 
trying  to  improve  his  work.  Tlie  difference  between 
the  opening  speeches  in  the  two  versions  is  more  nota- 
ble still.     Here  is  the  version  of  1603  :  — 

"  Enter  two  Centinels. 

1.  Stand  :  who  is  that  ? 

2.  'T  is  L 

1.  O  you  come  most  carefully  upon  your  watch. 

2.  And  if  you  meet  Marcdlus  and  Horatio, 

The  partners  of  my  watch,  bid  them  make  haste.** 

i  Between  II.  ii.  167,  and  II.  ii.  172. 


HAMLET  255 

Similar  as  this  seems  to  the  final  version,  it  is  com- 
paratively lifeless.  The  sentinel  on  watch,  seeing 
some  one  approach,  challenges  him,  who  declares 
himself  to  be  the  relief-guard.  Clearly  nothing 
could  be  more  commonplace.  Now  turn  to  the  final 
version  :  — 

"  Francisco  at  his  post,  Enter  to  him  Bernardo. 

Ber.      Who  's  there  ? 

Fran.     Nay,  answer  me  :  stand,  and  unfold  yourself. 

Ber.       Long  live  the  king ! 

Fran.     Bernardo  ? 

Ber.      He. 

Fran.    You  come  most  carefully  upon  your  hour. 

Ber.       'T  is  now  struck  twelve ;  get  thee  to  bed,  Francisco. 

Fran.     For  this  relief  much  thanks:  't  is  bitter  cold, 
And  I  am  sick  at  heart. 

Ber.       Have  you  had  quiet  guard  1 

Fra7i.  Not  a  mouse  stirring. 

Ber.       Well,  good  night. 

If  you  do  meet  Horatio  and  Marcellus, 

The  rivals  of  my  watch,  bid  them  make  haste." 

At  first  this  scene  looks  like  the  other.  On  scrutiny, 
however,  you  see  that  the  opening  challenge  is  trans- 
posed from  the  mouth  of  the  sentinel  on  watch,  who 
ought  to  give  it,  to  that  of  the  relieving  sentinel,  who 
ought  not  to.  In  a  moment,  you  see  why.  Bernardo, 
the  relieving  sentinel,  knows  that  the  ghost  is  astir; 
and  seeing  a  figure  in  the  dark  gives  the  challenge,  in 
a  fright  which  pervades  all  his  speeches.  Francisco, 
the  sentinel  on  watcli,  knowing  nothing  of  the  ghost, 
only  feels  cold.     Such  a  change  as  this,  however  and 


256  AVTLLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

whenever  made,  is  the  kind  of  change  by  which  a 
skilful  artist,  with  a  mere  touch  of  the  pen,  dispels 
commonplace. 

Such  evidence  as  this  tends  to  confirm  the  opinion 
that  the  quarto  of  1603  is  a  mutilated  version  of 
Shakspere's  own  earlier  work,  and  that  the  final 
Hamlet  represents  his  last  revision  of  it.  The  differ- 
ences between  the  two  are  generally  such  as  a  great 
imaginative  artist,  more  and  more  imbued  with  the 
artistic  significance  of  his  subject,  would  introduce  by 
way  of  refinement,  finish,  adaptation. 

Canting  as  artistic  significance  may  sound,  the 
phrase  probably  contains  the  clew  to  Hamlet.  Every 
one  knows  the  tragedy  to  be  full  of  endless,  fascinat- 
ing, suggestive  mystery.  Critic  after  critic  has  tried 
to  solve  this  mystery,  to  demonstrate  what  it  signi- 
fies. Abandon  this  effort,  and  you  will  see  the  whole 
subject  in  a  new  and  a  clearer  light.  Once  for  all, 
there  is  no  need  for  any  solution  of  Hamlet;  as  it 
stands,  the  tragedy  finally  expresses  the  mood  of  an 
artist  who  has  no  answer  for  the  problems  which  rise 
before  him. 

Hamlet^  indeed,  we  may  believe  to  have  developed 
in  some  such  manner  as  we  detected  when  we  consid- 
ered the  character  of  Falstaff.^  In  him  we  could 
faintly  trace  a  conventional  old  satire  on  the  Puritan 
hero,  Oldcastle.  This,  we  conceived,  Shakspere  meant 
to  reproduce,  much  as  in  Kinrj  John  he  had  repro- 
duced from  an  old  play  the  Bastard  Faulconbridge. 

1  Seep.  167-171. 


HAMLET  257 

The  change  from  this  traditional  Oldcastle  we  conceived 
to  be  spontaneous.  The  conventionally  burlesqued 
Puritan  we  conceived,  of  its  own  accord,  to  grow  into 
something  so  remote  from  its  origin  that  the  epilogue 
could  truly  say,  "  Oldcastle  died  a  martyr,  and  this  is 
not  the  man."  ^  Imagine  the  same  process  here.  The 
old  tragedy  of  blood  possesses  the  imagination  of  the 
poet,  perhaps  for  years.  What  it  means,  what  it  sig- 
nifies, he,  as  an  artist,  neither  knows  nor  cares.  To 
an  artist,  thus  possessed,  the  vital  question  is  not  what 
his  conceptions  mean,  but  what  they  are.  They  grow 
within  him,  they  will  not  let  him  rest ;  he  must  speak 
them  out,  must  tell  what  they  are.  That  very  process 
for  the  moment  exhausts  him  ;  it  is  all  he  cares  about ; 
for  himself  it  is  enough. 

For  critical  students,  like  us,  however,  the  case  is 
otherwise.  Not  knowing  the  artistic  mood  sponta- 
neously, we  must  perforce  ask  ourselves  not  only  what 
it  is  but  what  it  means.  Without  such  guidance  as 
should  come  from  answers  to  this  question,  which  very 
probably  involves  matters  of  which  the  artist  never 
was  aware,  we  may  fail  to  understand  him. 

In  Hamlet^  then,  one  notable  trait  appears  for  the 
first  time.  Whatever  else  we  find  in  the  tragedy, 
we  surely  find  an  activity  of  intellect  which  at  first 
seems  superhuman.  Putting  wonder  aside,  however, 
and  asking  whether,  in  real  life,  we  have  met  anything 
like  it,  we  discover  a  startling  answer  close  at  hand. 
Any  of  us  must  have  known  people  whose  tremendous 

1  Seep.  172. 
17  ... 


258  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

mental  activity  makes  them,  in  comparison  with  every- 
day mortals,  seem  divinely  gifted  ;  and  most  of  ua 
must  have  become  aware  that  such  a  trait  indicates, 
in  the  stock  which  breeds  it,  a  marked  tendency  to 
insanity.  In  other  words,  there  are  always  people 
about  us  whose  minds  have  the  diseased  activity, 
without  the  aberration,  of  mania.  Such  a  mind  wrote 
Hamlet. 

At  the  same  time,  as  distinguished  from  men  who 
display  the  vagaries  of  genius,  Shakspere  was  always 
exceptionally  sane.  The  trait  which  balanced  his 
abnormal  activity  of  intellectual  perception  was  an 
equally  active  and  pervasive  power  of  reflection. 
Whatever  he  perceived,  he  could  consider,  could  com- 
ment on.  Besides,  as  we  have  seen  before,  he  was  by 
this  time  a  consummate  artist ;  and  artistic  expression, 
involving  a  deliberate  severance  of  personality  within 
the  artist  himself,^  is  often  what  saves  men  of  genius 
from  Bedlam.  With  one  part  of  their  being  they 
may  yield  to  all  the  ecstasy  of  divine  madness;  with 
another,  they  must  contemplate  and  phrase  the  mad- 
dening thoughts  and  feelings  which  surge  within  them, 
preserving,  in  spite  of  all,  the  cool  cunning  which  mas- 
ters technical  obstructions. 

Such  tremendous  activity,  mastered  and  controlled 
by  equally  tremendous  power,  infuses  every  line  of 
Hamlet;  yet  in  Hamlet  it  always  subserves  a  constant 
emotional  purpose.  The  resulting  state  of  the  poet's 
mind  is  best  indicated  perhaps  by  the  words  of  a  critic 

1  See  p.  228. 


HAMLET  259 

who,  having  known  the  tragedy  for  thirty  years,  and 
having  loved  it  passionately,  declared  that  from  the 
beginning  he  had  never  once  been  able  to  think  of  it 
without  a  faint,  lurking  consciousness  of  some  un- 
phrased  musical  cadence  beneath  it  all.  Beneath  it, 
then,  he  for  one  could  perceive  some  fundamental 
emotion  which  no  language  can  express, —  something 
so  ethereally  beyond  the  range  of  what  all  men  realize 
that  it  cannot  be  couched  in  any  vehicle  so  definite  as 
words.  Words,  he  found,  could  help  him  no  farther 
than  when  he  called  this  emotion  a  quivering  sense  of 
the  eternal  mystery  of  tragic  fate. 

A  sense  of  tragic  fate,  then,  in  all  its  horror  — 
not  the  balanced,  judicial  fate  of  the  Greeks,  but  the 
passionate,  stormy,  Christianized  fate  of  Romantic 
Europe  —  underlies  the  mood  which  Hamlet  would 
express.  Men  are  the  sport  of  such  fate  :  thought, 
emotion,  conduct,  life  in  all  its  aspects,  are  alike  at 
the  mercy  of  this  unspeakable,  inexorable  force. 
Yet,  all  the  while,  these  very  men,  whirled  onward 
though  they  be  toward  and  through  the  portals  of 
eternity,  must  think,  must  feel,  must  act,  must  live  ; 
to  others  and  even  to  themselves  they  must  seem, 
even  though  they  may  never  truly  be,  the  responsible 
masters  of  themselves.  This  is  the  fact  which  the 
maker  of  Hamlet  contemplated.  The  reaction  which 
stirred  within  him  from  this  contemplation  was  a  pas- 
sionate, restless  acknowledgment  of  endless,  unfathom- 
able mystery.  No  words  can  quite  phrase  it ;  perhaps 
none  can  phrase  it  better  than  some  fragmentary  lines 


260  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

from  Hamlet's  great  soliloquy,  —  all  the  truer  to  our 

elusive  meaning  if  we  leave  them  subjectless  :  — 

"  Puzzles  the  will, 
And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of."  ^ 

The  ills  we  have,  all  the  while,  we  know  with  an 
intensity  of  suffering  hardly  to  be  borne.  Chief 
among  them  are  those  which  spring  from  the  fact 
that  men  are  men  and  women  are  women.  It  is  no 
intentional  evil-doing  which  has  led  the  King  and  the 
Queen  to  their  grim  career  of  incest  and  murder ;  it 
is  rather  that,  being  the  mortals  they  are,  they  have 
lived  and  done  their  deeds  in  a  world  where  damning: 
sin  held  them  in  its  toils.  And  Ophelia  is  a  woman, 
and  Hamlet  is  a  man,  and  therein  lies  the  seed  of 
the  ills  we  have,  and  the  ills  to  come.  A  knowl- 
edge of  these  ills,  perceived  with  the  keenness  of  an 
intellect  alive  to  the  very  utmost  limits  of  human  ken, 
underlies  the  mood  of  Hamlet.  Were  not  the  master- 
mind, too,  artistically  alert  to  the  utmost  limits  of 
human  power,  it  could  not  have  phrased,  with  an  art 
at  once  ultimately  dramatic  and  ultimately  poetic,  and 
with  a  philosophic  insight  which  seems  illimitable,  this 
mood  whose  depth  of  mystery  is  best  proved  by  the 
truth  that  throughout  the  centuries  it  remains  mys- 
terious. Fateful,  passionate,  inscrutable,  —  such  is 
the  life  which  Hamlet  sets  forth. 

Was  Hamlet   mad  ?    critic  after  critic  has  asked. 
In    all  human   probability,  Shakspere  himself  could 

1  UI.  i.  80. 


HAMLET  261 

have  answered  the  question  no  better  than  we. 
Artists  know  less  of  what  they  do  not  tell  us  than 
inartistic  critics  give  them  credit  for  ;  Tiiackeray, 
tliey  say,  was  never  quite  sure  how  far  Becky  Sharp 
liad  gone  with  Lord  Steyne.  How  Hamlet  may  have 
presented  himself  to  Shakspere,  is  aptly  suggested  in 
a  note  by  Mr.  Greene  ^ :  — 

'*  Perhaps  Shakspere  hardly  recognized  that  Hamlet  was 
essentially  not  a  chronicle-history.  He  applied  his  realistic, 
his  'objective'  method  persistently;  and  with  his  own 
pessimistic  temper  at  the  time  he  produced  what  had  been 
only  hinted  at  in  Julius  Ccesar,  —  a  psychologic  tragedy. 
There  is  little  formal  analysis;  only  aspects  are  depicted; 
but  our  interest  centres  on  the  mental  states  which  cause 
those  aspects.  The  fact  that  Shakespere  has  kept  to  the 
'objective'  method  accounts  for  the  puzzling  character  of 
the  work.  A  real  man  lives  in  Shakspere's  brain,  and 
speaks,  and  acts.  Why  he  so  speaks  and  acts  we  can  only 
guess  —  and  Shakspere  can  only  guess.  Therefore  the 
question  as  to  the  true  nature  of  Hamlet's  character  is 
essentially    insoluble." 

Of  only  one  thing  concerning  Hamlet,  indeed,  may  we 
feel  sure.  So  unfathomable  is  his  range  of  thought  and 
emotion  that  actor  after  actor  can  play  the  part  with 
masterly  intelligence,  and  each  can  be  different  from 
any  other  Poetic  Booth,  for  example,  sad  Lawrence 
Barrett,  demoniacally  witty  Henry  Irving,  romantic 
Mounet-Sully  are  as  unlike  as  any  four  human  beings 

1  Whose  kindness  is  acknowledged  in  the  introductory  Note  to  this 
book. 


262  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

can  be  ;  yet  in  none  can  you  find  a  trait  unauthorized 
by  the  text.  Fateful,  passionate,  inscrutable,  —  such 
seems  Hamlet  to  himself,  such  to  his  impersonators  ; 
and  such,  we  may  believe,  he  seemed  to  his  creator. 
Slight  as  this  treatment  of  Hamlet  is,  and  surely 
neglectful  though  it  be  of  endless  facts  and  theories 
which  even  superficial  students  of  the  subject  are 
bound  to  know  and  to  consider,  it  should  serve  our 
purpose.  Our  business,  after  all,  is  not  to  fathom  the 
depths  of  Hamlet,  but  only  to  assure  ourselves  of 
Hamlet's  relation  to  Shakspere's  development  as  an 
artist.  In  it  we  have  found  many  traces  of  his  old 
methods  of  thought  and  work.  In  it,  too,  we  have 
found  again  both  the  profound  sense  of  irony  so  unpas- 
sionately  set  forth  in  Julius  Ccesar,  and  the  knowledge 
of  what  evil  comes  from  the  fact  of  sex  so  cynically 
set  forth  in  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well.  In  it,  further- 
more, we  have  found  a  terrible  activity  of  roused  in- 
tellect which  in  a  less  balanced  nature  might  have  led 
to  madness.  In  it,  finally,  we  have  found  a  Shakspere 
different,  in  his  whole  artistic  nature,  from  the  Shaks- 
pere whom  we  have  known  hitherto  ;  for  here  at  last 
we  find  him,  in  the  full  ripeness  of  his  power,  passion- 
ately facing  the  everlasting  mysteries,  and,  for  all  his 
greatness,  as  little  able  as  the  least  of  us  to  phrase  an 
answer  to  their  eternal  enigma. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE  263 


V.    Measure  for  Measure. 

[Measure  for  Measure  was  first  entered  in  1623,  and  first  published 
in  the  folio ;  but  according  to  Mr.  Heay,i  it  was  acted  at  court  ia 
December,  1604. 

The  main  outline  of  the  story  —  without  the  episode  of  Mariana, 
whom  Shakspere  substitutes  at  a  crucial  moment  for  the  original 
heroine,  —  exists  in  Whetstone's  Promus  and  Cassandra,  published  in 
1578,  and  in  his  Pentameron,  published  in  1582.  It  is  based  on  the 
Italian  of  Cinthio's  Ilecatonunlthi. 

From  internal  evidence  —  allusions  and  style  combined,  —  Measure 
for  Measure  has  been  conjecturally  assigned  to  1603  or  1604.] 

At  first  sight,  Measure  for  Measure^  like  so  many 
other  of  Shakspere's  plays,  seems  strongly  individ- 
ual. Its  general  effect,  certainly,  —  the  mood  into 
which  it  throws  you,  —  is  unique  :  a  little  considera- 
tion, however,  reveals,  in  both  its  motive  and  its 
method,  the  economy  of  invention  so  characteristic  of 
Shakspere. 

In  Julius  Ccesar^  as  we  have  seen,  he  expressed  very 
plainly  the  sense  of  irony  which  now  for  a  while  so 
pervades  his  artistic  feeling.  In  All 's  Well  that  Ends 
Well,  he  expressed  his  equally  persistent  sense  that 
while  men  remain  men  and  women  remain  women, 
there  will  surely  be  trouble.  In  Hamlet  lie  expressed 
a  fiercely  passionate  sense  of  the  mystery  which  hangs 
over  life,  wherein  the  two  preceding  motives  remain 
constant.     In  Measure  for  Measure  all  these  motives 

1  Life,  235. 


264  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

reappear :  the  slightest  consideration  of  the  story  of 
Angelo  will  reveal  the  two  first ;  the  prison  scene,^ 
particularly  when  Claudio  shudders  in  the  face  of 
death ,2  will  reveal  something  of  the  last.  So,  too, 
more  subtly  but  just  as  surely,  we  find  in  Measure  for 
Measure  the  motives  which  underlie  both  series  of  the 
Sonnets  :  Claudio  is  another  example  of  such  fasci- 
nating youth  and  weakness  as  may  have  inspired  the 
first  series  ;  and,  though  in  the  serious  parts  we  have  no 
actively  evil  woman,  the  stories  of  Isabella,  of  Mariana, 
and  of  Juliet,  constantly  suggest  the  evils  which  arise 
from  the  fascinating  fact  of  sex.  What  makes  Measure 
for  Measure  seem  individual,  then,  is  not  that  its  mo- 
tives are  new,  but  that  they  are  newly  combined  ;  they 
differ  from  the  old  not  in  kind,  but  in  proportion. 
Here,  for  example,  the  irony,  while  far  more  passionate 
than  that  of  Julius  Ccesar,  lacks  the  overwhelming  in- 
tensity which  marks  it  in  Hamlet.  Here,  too,  the  sense 
of  sexual  evil  is  at  once  more  profound  than  that  of 
All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well,  and  so  firmly  set  forth  that 
you  feel  its  greater  depth  to  imply  more  certain  in- 
sight. Here,  finally,  while  there  is  no  direct  self- 
revelation,  the  frequent  analogies  to  the  moods 
expressed  in  the  Sonnets  go  far  to  make  you  feel  that 
the  mood  of  Measure  for  Measure  is  unstudied,  spon- 
taneous, sincere. 

In  the  matter  of  dramatic  detail,  even  to  many  of 
the  speeches.  Measure  for  Measure  is  almost  re- 
capitulatory.    The  old  stage  situations  and  devices  of 

1  III.  i.  2  118  seq. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE        265 

the  comedies  —  mistaken  identity  and  self-deception  — 
are  persistently  used.  Their  effect,  however,  is  no 
h)ngcr  comic,  'i'he  disguised  Duke  is  a  very  different 
figure  from  a  girlish  heroine  in  a  page's  hose  and 
doublet.  Still  more,  Angelo  is  a  very  different  figure 
from  Malvolio,  or  Benedick,  or  Falstaff.  By  almost 
any  other  Elizabethan  dramatist,  indeed,  he  might 
have  been  made  ribaldly  amusing.  Imagine  him,  and 
his  situation  on  the  modern  French  stage,  and  you  will 
see  for  yourself  what  a  chance  for  loose  fun  they  afford. 
That  this  chance  is  neglected,  that  Angelo  is  rather  a 
tragic  figure  than  a  comic,  is  deeply  characteristic  both 
of  Shakspere  and  of  this  moment  in  his  career. 
Recapitulation,  with  due  variation,  however,  does 
not  end  with  such  general  matters  as  these.  The 
career  and  the  fate  of  Lucio  are  closely  akin  to  those 
of  Parolles  and  of  Falstaff,  just  as  his  ribald  chat  has 
something  in  common  with  Mercutio's.  Clearly,  too, 
Mariana  simply  revives  the  Diana  of  AlVs  Well  that 
Ends  Well  ;  and  Claudio,  at  least  in  his  weakness,  has 
much  in  connnon  with  Bertram.  The  last  acts  of 
these  two  plays,  furthermore,  are  so  much  alike  that 
this  portion  of  All 's  Well  that  Eyids  Well  might  almost 
be  regarded  as  a  study  for  this  portion  of  Measure  for 
Measure. 

Even  more  notable,  however,  is  the  reminiscent,  if 
not  exactly  recapitulatory,  flavor  of  many  actual 
speeches.  This  is  so  marked  that  we  may  to  advan- 
tage compare  two  passages  from  Measure  for  Measure 
with  similar  ones  from  earlier  works. 


266  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

The  first  of  these  passages  is  that  where  Isabella 
pleads  for  mercy  on  Claudio;  it  instantly  suggests 
Portia's  more  familiar  plea  for  mercy  with  Shylock. 
Here  is  Portia's :  ^  — 

"  The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strain'd, 
It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath  :  it  is  twice  blest  ; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives  and  him  that  takes  : 
'T  is  mightiest  in  the  mightiest  :  it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown  ; 
His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power, 
The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 
Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings  ; 
But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway  ; 
It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings. 
It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 
And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's 
When  mercy  seasons  justice." 

Here  is  Isabella's  plea  with  Angelo :  ^  — 

"  No  ceremony  that  to  great  ones  'longs, 
Not  the  king's  crown,  nor  the  deputed  sword, 
The  marshal's  truncheon,  nor  the  judge's  robe, 
Become  them  with  one  half  so  good  a  grace 
As  mercy  does. 

If  he  had  been  as  you  and  you  as  he. 
You  would  have  slipt  like  him  ;  but  he,  like  you, 
Would  not  have  been  so  stern. 

Alas,  alas ! 
Why,  all  the  souls  that  were  were  forfeit  once ; 
And  He  that  might  the  vantage  best  have  took 
Found  out  the  remedy.     How  would  you  be, 

1  Merchant,  of  Venice,  IV.  i.  184  seq. 

2  II.  ii.  59  seq. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE        267 

If  He,  which  is  the  top  of  jutlgeiuent,  should 
But  judge  you  as  you  are  ?     O,  think  on  that  ; 
And  mercy  then  will  breathe  within  your  lips, 
Like  man  new  made." 

The  second  passage  from  Measure  for  Measure 
which  here  deserves  attention  is  Claudio's  speech  on 
death,  which  resembles  Hamlet's  great  soliloquy ,i  — 

"  To  be  or  not  to  be,"  etc. 

A   few   lines   should    serve   to  remind  every  one   of 
that :  — 

"  To  die  :  to  sleep  ; 
No  more  ;  and  by  a  sleep  to  say  we  end 
The  heart-ache  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 
That  flesh  is  heir  to,  't  is  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wish VI.     To  die,  to  sleep  ; 
To  sleep  :  perchance  to  dream  :  ay,  there 's  the  rub  ; 
For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come 
When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil, 
Must  give  us  pause  :  there  's  the  respect 
That  makes  calamity  of  so  long  life. 

Who  would  fardels  bear, 
To  grunt  and  sweat  under  a  weary  life, 
But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  death, 
The  undiscover'd  country  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveller  returns,  puzzles  the  will 
And  makes  us  rather  bear  those  ills  we  have 
Than  fly  to  others  that  we  know  not  of." 

Compare  with  this  Claudio's  speech  :2  — 

"  Ay,  but  to  die,  and  go  we  know  not  where; 
To  lie  in  cold  obstruction  and  to  rot ; 

1  Hamlet,  III.  i.  56  seq.  2  ni.  i.  118  seq. 


268  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

This  sensible  warm  motion  to  become 
A  kneaded  clod  ;  and  the  delighted  spirit 
To  bathe  in  fiery  floods,  or  to  reside 
In  thrilling  region  of  thick-ribbed  ice  ;  ^ 
To  be  imprison'd  in  the  viewless  winds, 
And  blown  with  restless  violence  round  about 
The  pendent  world ;  or  to  be  worse  than  worst 
Of  those  that  lawless  and  incertain  thought, 
Imagine  howling:  ^  't  is  too  horrible  1 
The  weariest  and  most  loathed  worldly  life 
That  age,  ache,  penury  and  imprisonment 
Can  lay  on  nature  is  a  paradise 
To  what  we  fear  of  death." 


With  less  direct  quotation,  it  would  have  been  hard 
to  make  clear  a  distinct  difference,  in  something  more 
tangible  than  mood  or  temper,  between  Measure  for 
Measure  and  the  plays  we  have  considered  before. 
The  passages  we  have  just  read  are  enough  alike  to 
demonstrate  that  the  very  style  of  Measure  for  Measure 
has  a  certain  heaviness  which  we  have  not  met  hither- 
to. Tlie  comparison  also  suggests  that  the  change  is 
due  to  increased  activity  of  thought.  Unimpulsively, 
but  intensely  and  constantly,  reflective,  the  mind  which 
wrote  Measure  for  Measure  was  actually  overburdened 
with  things  to  say.  Here,  then,  we  have  a  fresh 
symptom  of  the  abnormal  mental  activity  which  per- 
vades Hamlet.  It  reveals  itself  now  in  a  compactness 
of  style  hitherto  strange  to  Shakspere.     The  passages 

^  Compare  these  five  lines,  too,  with  the  Ghost's  speech,  —  Hamlet, 
I.  V.  9-20. 

2  Cf.  Hamlet,  V.  i.  265. 


MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE        269 

just  quoted  are  by  no  means  the  most  compact  of 
Measure  for  Measure^  which  often  becomes  positively 
obscure.  One  feels  at  last  as  if  Shakspere's  abnormal 
activity  of  mind,  prevented  by  his  lack  of  inventive 
power  from  dashing  into  regions  foreign  to  his  older 
experience,  were  writhing  about  every  concept  he  had, 
striving  with  the  linear  vehicle  of  language  to  enwrap 
elusive  solidity  of  thought.  While  not  constant  here- 
after, this  trait  is  henceforth  characteristic  of  Shaks- 
pere's style. 

Taking  all  these  considerations  together,  we  find  in 
the  mood  of  Measure  for  Measure  a  normal  reaction 
from  the  passionate  sense  of  mystery  so  wonderfully 
phrased  in  Hamlet.  Tacitly  assuming,  as  usual,  the 
conventional  ideals  of  virtue  and  of  life  still  instinctive 
to  the  normal  English  mind,  Shakspere  faces  the  fact 
of  sexual  passion.  Like  the  fate  which  Hamlet  faces, 
the  thing  is  at  once  mysterious  and  evil.  In  Hamlet 
Shakspere  expressed  his  sense  of  the  mystery ;  in 
Measure  for  Measure  he  expresses  his  sense  of  the 
evil.  Here  his  dominant  mood  is  grimly  contempla- 
tive, almost  consciously  philosophic.  No  more  than 
in  Hamlet  can  he  offer  any  solution  of  the  dreadful 
mystery  ;  but  he  can  state  fact,  and  can  comment  on  it 
inexhaustibly.  The  mood  is  a  mood  of  reaction,  —  of 
slumbering  passion,  but  of  enormous,  sombre  latent 
feeling. 

Strangely  enough,  this  mood  has  much  in  common 
with  a  potent  contemporary  mood  wiiich  has  left  a 
widely  different  record,  —  the  Calvinistic  philosophy 


270  WILLIAM   SHAKSPEKE 

of  the  Puritans.  As  with  them,  life  is  a  positively 
evil  thing,  made  up  of  sin,  of  weakness,  of  whatever 
else  should  deserve  damnation.  Fate  is  overpower- 
ing ;  pure  ideals  are  bent  and  broken  in  conflict  with 
fact ;  and,  above  all,  sexual  love  is  a  vast,  evil  mystery. 
Even  though,  here  and  there,  a  gleam  of  persist- 
ent purity  suggest  the  possibility  of  rare,  capricious 
election,  most  men  are  bound  by  the  very  law  of 
their  being  to  whirl  headlong  toward  merited  damna- 
tion. In  Measure  for  Measure  —  so  strangely  named 
a  comedy  —  one  may  constantly  find  this  unwitting 
exposition  of  Calvinism,  with  no  gleam  of  hopeful 
solution.  This  evil  fact  is  the  real  world ;  see  it,  hate 
it,  grimly  laugh  at  it  if  you  can  and  will ;  God  knows 
what  it  means  ;  all  we  know  is  that  it  can  surely  mean 
no  good.  Meanwhile,  however,  it  can  afford  us  end- 
less material  for  comment ;  and  comment  is  essentially 
anaesthetic. 

So  this  mood,  after  all  not  peculiar  to  Shakspere, 
but  a  mood  very  potent  throughout  his  time,  takes  its 
place  between  the  moods  which  his  work  has  already 
expressed  and  the  moods  which  are  to  come.  Deeper 
and  deeper  insight  they  show  into  the  depths  of  human 
experience  ;  but  not  a  spiritual  insight  which  pierces 
higher  and  higher. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA  271 


VI.     Troilus  and  Cressida. 

[On  February  7th,  1603,  Troilus  and  Cressida,  "  as  it  is  acted  by  my 
Lord  Chamberlaiu's  men,"  was  entered  iu  the  Stationers'  Register,  to 
be  published  by  cue  James  Roberts,  "  when  he  hath  gotten  sufficient 
authority  fur  it."  This  authority  seems  never  to  have  beeu  gotten,  for 
no  further  mention  of  Troilus  and  Cressida  occurs  until  January  28th, 
1609,  when  it  was  again  entered  in  the  Stationers'  Register.  During 
the  same  year  it  was  twice  jtublished  in  quarto,  as  *'  Written  bi/  William 
Shakespeare ;  "  in  the  first  of  these  quartos  is  an  apparently  mendacious 
preface,  suppressed  in  the  second,  stating  that  the  play  was  "  never 
staid  with  the  stage,  never  clapper-clawed  with  the  palmes  of  the 
vulo-er."  In  the  folio  of  1623,  Troilus  and  Cressida  is  printed  between 
the  histories  and  the  tragedies,  and  it  does  not  appear  at  all  in  the 
general  list  of  plays.  Apparently  the  editors  could  not  decide  how  to 
classify  it. 

Its  sources  are  evidently  the  mediaeval  versions  of  the  story  of  Troy, 
of  which  the  most  notable  in  English  is  Chaucer's  Troilus  and  Creseide. 
Possibly  it  may  have  some  connection  with  Chapman's  Homer. 

Conjectures  as  to  the  date  of  the  play  vary  widely.  From  the  evi- 
dence stated,  as  well  as  on  other  grounds,  many  are  now  disposed  to 
think  that  the  plan  of  the  play  is  very  early,  that  an  acting  version  of 
it,  similar  to  the  final  one,  was  produced  about  1602,  and  that  the 
whole  thing  was  revived  about  1609.  In  the  squabbles  of  the  Grecian 
heroes  Mr.  Fleay  '  believes  that  we  may  detect  allusions  to  theatrical 
squabbles  prevalent  in  London  about  1602.] 

Just  when,  or  how,  or  why  Troilus  and  Cressida  was 
written  nobody  knows  ;  yet  clearly,  we  must  put  It 
somewhere.  For  one  thing,  then,  the  very  fact  that 
in  so  many  aspects  it  is  puzzling  might  incline  us 
fantastically  to  group  it  with  plays  whose  chief  trait 

1  Li/e,  220-224. 


272  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

is  that  they  express  a  puzzled,  indeterminate  mood. 
Besides,  whatever  doubts  may  exist  about  Troilus  and 
Cressida,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  it  deals  with  both 
of  the  motives  just  now  so  palpable  in  Shakspere's 
work,  —  the  irony  of  fate  and  the  mischief  which 
women  make.  Again,  while  it  displays  nothing  which 
may  fairly  be  called  exhaustion,  it  has  throughout 
such  a  quality  of  creative  inertia  as  we  have  seen  to 
characterize  work  done  by  Shakspere  when  his  best 
energy  was  concentrated  elsewhere.  Finally,  while 
the  character  of  Cressida  has  an  obvious  likeness  to 
that  of  Cleopatra,  which  might  warrant  us  in  placing 
this  play  near  that  of  which  Cleopatra  is  heroine,  it 
has  an  equal  and  less  generally  recognized  likeness  to 
the  character  of  Desdemona.  Taken  together,  these 
considerations  —  none  of  them  very  cogent  —  perhaps 
warrant  us  in  considering  Troilus  and  Cressida  before 
OtJiello. 

Palpable  in  the  very  construction  of  Troilus  and 
Cressida,  the  least  dramatic  of  Shakspere's  plays,  the 
puzzling  quality  pervades  it  everywhere.  Of  late  cer- 
tain critics  have  wondered  whether  it  be  not  deliber- 
ately satirical ;  certainly,  they  say,  Shakspere,  dealing 
with  a  heroic  subject,  carefully  refrains  from  making 
anybody  in  the  least  heroic.  However  agreeable  to 
modern  ways  of  thinking,  such  a  view  is  hardly  con- 
sonant with  Elizabethan  temper.  It  were  more  rational 
to  say  that  in  this  case  Shakspere  has  really  done  afresh 
what  he  has  done  all  along :  he  has  translated  into 
dramatic  form  material  which  he  found  in  narrative  ; 


TKOILUS   AND   CRE8SIDA  273 

and  so  doing  he  has,  as  usual,  made  his  characters 
considerably  naore  human  than  he  found  them.  By 
the  very  process  of  humanizing  them,  however,  he  has 
permeated  them  with  the  view  of  human  nature  which 
possessed  him  at  about  the  time  to  which  we  venture 
to  assign  the  play.  Essentially,  then,  these  personages 
become  bad  and  inexplicable,  — such  figures  as  in 
actual  life  furnished  the  data  of  Calvinism.  Human 
beings,  thus  regarded,  are  puzzling  facts ;  hence  the 
puzzle  of  Troilus  and   Cressida. 

The  persistence  in  Troilus  and  Cressida  of  the  two 
motives  so  characteristic  of  this  period  goes  far  to 
confirm  this  impression.  Clearly  neither  the  Greeks 
nor  the  Trojans  here  are  really  free  agents.  As 
Cassius  played  on  Brutus,  to  be  sure,  so  Ulysses  plays 
on  whoever  comes  near  him,  and  so  to  a  certain  degree 
Pandarus  plays  on  the  lovers.  Beneath  them  all, 
however,  an  overmastering,  blind  fate  —  in  this  case 
by  no  means  passionately  recognized  —  drives  every 
one  together  nowhither.  The  means  it  takes  to  drive 
them,  too,  is  more  palpable  than  before  ;  what  breeds 
the  trouble  is  the  wantonness  of  woman.  Though  we 
see  little  of  Helen,  we  rarely  lose  the  sense  of  her 
damning  presence  ;  and  in  Cressida  we  have  a  full- 
length  portrait  of  a  fascinating  wanton,  all  the  more 
fatal  because  of  her  momentary,  volatile  sincerity. 
The  more  one  studies  the  character  of  Cressida,  the 
more  one  feels  its  truth.  Of  Cressida,  however,  we 
shall  see  more  a  little  later. 

With  all  its  puzzling  humanity,  and  all  its  persist- 


274  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

ence  of  motive,  Troilus  and  Cressida  must  alwavs  have 
been  a  dull  play.  This  is  partly  a  question  of  actual 
construction.  The  real  action  here  is  very  slight;  the 
background,  against  which  it  is  played,  is  very  heavy. 
When  Troilus,  or  Cressida,  or  Pandarus  are  on  the 
scene,  to  be  sure,  something  happens ;  but  they  are 
not  on  the  scene  often  enough  or  long  enough  to  dis- 
tract our  attention  from  the  endless  harangues  and  the 
pointless  squabbles  of  Greeks  and  Trojans.  Of  course 
these  Greeks  and  Trojans  live ;  compared  with  any 
of  the  sources  from  which  Shakspere  may  have  drawn 
them,  they  are  remarkable  for  vitality.  In  no  case, 
however,  do  they  live  nobly  or  heroically  ;  nor  yet  do 
they  display  themselves  in  phases  of  life  or  conduct 
which  even  Elizabethans  could  have  found  dramati- 
cally interesting.  Elizabethan  audiences  could  relish 
things  which  nowadays  would  put  audiences  to  sleep ; 
in  sonorous  rant  and  prolonged  soliloquy  they  could 
find  such  delight  as  modern  audiences  seek  in  the 
music  of  grand  opera  ;  in  fantastic  plays  on  words  and 
turns  of  phrase  they  could  find  such  pleasure  as  nowa- 
days audiences  feel  in  catching  tunes  ;  and  if  a  text 
were  really  comic  they  could  enjoy  it  heartily  without 
the  aid  of  action.  Even  an  Elizabethan  audience, 
however,  could  hardly  have  stomached  the  prolonged 
philosophizing  which  fills  pages  of  Troilus  and  Cres- 
sida. In  the  first  scene  at  the  Grecian  camp,^  for 
example,  no  human  being  could  ever  have  spouted  the 
lines  of  Agamemnon,  and  Nestor,  and  Ulysses,  so  that 

1  I.  iii. 


TROILUS  AND  CRE8SIDA  275 

any  considerable  body  of  human  listeners,  wishing  to 
be  amused,  could  patiently  have  borne  them.  A  good 
deal  of  this  philosophizing,  to  be  sure,  is  admirable  ; 
for  a  reader  with  a  taste  for  aphorism,  Troilus  and 
Cressida  is  an  agreeably  pregnant  piece  of  literature. 
No  appetite  for  aphorism,  however,  could  stand  such 
philosophizing  at  the  theatre.  Few  ardent  church- 
goers even  would  relish  quite  such  compactly  serious 
matter  in  sermons.  Yet  the  philosophizing,  commen- 
tative  mood  expressed  in  these  long  speeches  and 
pregnant  phrases  is  the  mood  which  seems  uppermost 
in  Troilus  and  Cressida;  and  Troilus  and  Cressida  was 
meant  for  acting.  The  creative  inertia  thus  indicated 
goes  far  to  justify  our  placing  of  the  play  between 
Samlet  and    Othello. 

We  had  another  reason,  however,  for  placing  it  near 
Othello.  At  first  thought,  no  two  personages  seem 
much  less  similar  than  the  gentle  Desdemona  and  the 
wanton  heroine  who  emerges  as  the  most  vividly  indi- 
vidualized character  in  Troilus  and  Cressida.  Now- 
adays we  know  them  both  chiefly  from  the  printed 
page,  a  vehicle  which  defines  all  their  divergence.  To 
the  dramatic  writer,  however,  who  conceived  them  as 
they  should  present  themselves  to  an  audience,  they 
were  not  disembodied  personalities  ;  they  were  rather 
visible  women,  who  acted  and  looked  in  a  definite 
way.  Now  compare  the  first  scene  between  Troilus 
and  Cressida  ^  with  Othello's  familiar  account  of  the 
wooing  of  Desdemona,^  — 

1  m.  ii.  41-220.  ^  Othello,  I.  iii.  158  seq. 


276  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

"  My  story  being  done, 
She  gave  me  for  my  pains  a  world  of  sighs  : 
She  swore,  in  faith,  't  was  strange,  't  was  passing  strange, 
'T  was  pitiful,  't  was  wondrous  pitiful : 
She  wished  she  had  not  heard  it,  yet  she  wish'd 
That  heaven  had  made  her  such  a  man  :  she  thank'd  me. 
And  bade  me,  if  I  had  a  friend  that  loved  her, 
I  should  but  teach  him  how  to  tell  my  story, 
And  that  would  woo  her." 

This  simple,  conscious,  girlish  coquetry,  in  Desdemona 
compatible  with  such  exquisite  delicacy  of  nature  as 
she  finally  shows,^  must  have  looked  almost  exactly 
like  the  beliavior  of  Cressida  in  the  orchard  of 
Pandarus.  Again,  compare  the  civilities  which  pass 
between  Desdemona  and  Cassio  on  their  first  landins: 
in  Cyprus,^  with  the  proceedings  of  Cressida  on  her 
arrival  in  the  Grecian  camp.^  The  actual  conduct  in 
each  case  is  agreeable  to  polite  Elizabethan  manners ; 
but  while  in  Desdemona  it  means  no  more  than  a 
waltz  means  to-day,  in  Cressida  it  means,  at  best,  a 
fatal  weakness  of  nature.  The  more  one  considers 
these  two  characters  together,  in  short,  the  more  plaus- 
ible becomes  the  surmise  that  they  might  have  been 
studied  from  the  same  model.  The  wide  divergence 
of  view  which  they  express  concerning  the  same  visible 
lines  of  conduct  is  certainly  characteristic  of  Shaks- 
pere.  In  Love's  Labour 's  Lost,  we  remember,  he 
constantly  burlesqued  the  v^ry  affectations  he  was 
perpetrating.      In  Pyramus  and   Thishe,  he   gave  a 

1  Othello,  IV.  iii.  «  Othello,  XL  i.  97-103,  168-179. 

8  IV.  V.  17-63. 


TROILUS   AND  CRESSIDA  277 

comic  version  of  his  own  first  tragedy.  We  have 
lately  seen  such  variations  on  the  same  theme  as  the 
speeches  of  Portia  and  of  Isabella  on  mercy,  or,  better 
still,  the  speeches  on  death  of  Hamlet  and  of  Claudio. 
Another  similar  variation  on  a  given  theme  we  may 
reasonably  guess  to  occur  in  the  characters  of  Cressida 
and  of  Desdemona. 

For  all  this,  we  must  never  forget  that  Troilus  and 
Cressida  is  a  play  concerning  which,  in  such  a  study  as 
ours,  we  may  never  speak  with  certainty.  All  we  may 
surely  say  is  that,  wlicrever  it  belong,  it  is  a  reflective, 
and  so  a  bad  play,  which  expresses  very  definitely 
Shakspere's  artistic  sense  both  of  the  irony  of  fate, 
and  of  the  evil  inherent  in  the  fact  that  women  are 
women.  Here,  for  the  first  time,  indeed, —  apart  from 
such  figures  as  Doll  Tearsheet  and  Mistress  Overdone, 
—  we  find  bad  women.  In  all  this  there  are  analogies 
to  the  plays  which  certainly  belong  hereabouts.  Troilus 
and  Cressida,  too,  reveals  the  sort  of  inertia  which 
generally  marks  the  minor  work  of  a  period  when 
Shakspere's  greater  work  was  doing.  A  puzzle  we 
found  Troilus  and  Cressida,  though,  and  a  puzzle  we 
must  leave  it ;  our  best  comment  must  be  guess-work. 


278  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 


VII.    Othello. 

[Othello  was  entered  in  the  Stationers'  Register  on  October  6th, 
1621 ;  and  appeared  in  an  abridged  quarto  in  1622.  It  is  the  only  play 
of  Shakspere's  first  published  between  1609  aud  the  folio  of  1623.  In 
the  diary  of  the  Secretary  to  Prince  Louis  Frederick  of  Wiirtemberg, 
it  was  thus  mentioned  on  April  30th,  1610:  "  Lundi  .  .  .  S.  E.  alia  au 
Globe,  lieu  ordinaire  au  Ton  joue  les  Commedies,  y  fut  represente 
I'histoire  du  More  de  Venise."  It  is  also  recorded  among  fourteen 
plays  given  at  court  shortly  before  May  20th,  1613.  According  to 
Mr.  Fleay,^  it  was  acted  at  court  on  November  1st,  1604. 

Its  source  is  evidently  a  novel  iu  Cinthio's  Ilecatommithi,  of  which 
no  early  English  translation  is  known. 

Critics  are  generally  agreed  iu  coujecturally  assigning  it  to  1604.] 

If  Troilus  and  Cressida  be  a  puzzle,  nothing  in 
Shakspere  is  less  like  it  than  Othello,  which  is  per- 
haps the  most  modern  of  Shakspere's  plays.  On  our 
own  stage  no  other  is  so  absorbing,  so  free  from  traces 
of  archaic  origin,  which  we  must  overcome  before  we 
can  surrender  ourselves  to  the  performance. 

A  suggestive  reason  for  this  peculiar  effect  of 
Othello  has  been  proposed  by  Mr.  Greene :  — 

"The  most  obvious  characteristic  of  Othello  seems  to  be 
an  attempted  return  to  convention.  Shakspere  has  here 
taken  a  tale  of  blood,  and  has  set  to  work  to  produce  a 
sensational  play.  His  almost  involuntary  truth  turns 
Othello  from  its  possibilities  of  mere  blood-tragedy  to  what 
it  is,  —  a  broadly  handled  tragedy  of  character." 

1  Life,  p.  2.35. 


OTHELLO  279 

Such  Othello  certainly  is  ;  just  as  surely  it  is  also 
what  commonplaces  call  it,  —  the  supreme  tragedy  of 
jealousy.  Everything  in  the  play  tends  to  set  forth 
this  lasting  fact  of  human  nature.  There  is  no  under 
plot;  hardly  any  scenes  do  not  bear  directly  on  the 
story ;  there  is  less  discursive  matter  than  we  find 
almost  anywhere  else.  Naturally,  then,  we  think  of 
this  broadly  handled  tragedy  of  character,  dealing  so 
consummately  with  an  absorbing  human  passion,  as  a 
thing  apart  in  the  work  of  Shakspere ;  or  at  least  as 
related  to  his  other  work  by  little  else  than  its  pas- 
sionate conception  and  its  masterly  handling. 

Only  after  we  are  free  from  the  spell  which,  whether 
we  read  or  see  Othello,  the  play  must  cast  upon  us, 
can  we  trace  its  relations  to  other  works.  After  a 
while,  the  similarity  of  its  general  motive  to  the  story 
of  Claud io  and  Hero  and  Don  John,  in  Much  Ado 
About  Nothing,  begins  to  appear ;  and  we  find  Shaks- 
pere once  more  presenting  old  matter  in  a  new  light. 
The  new  light,  however,  makes  the  matter  seem  new. 
What  this  light  is  has  been  suggestively  stated  by 
Mr.  Young :  — 

"The  mood  [of  Othello]  seems  to  me  something  more 
than  jealousy  and  the  agony  of  it,  —  it  seems  a  sense  of 
the  power  of  sexual  love  as  a  motive  force  in  life.  The 
subject-matter  of  many  of  the  preceding  plays,  it  ma}'  be 
recalled,  was  chiefly  concerned  with  this  passion  in  its 
darker  aspects.  Shakspere's  mind,  it  may  be  said  safely 
enough,  had  dwelt  on  this  subject.  The  result  was  a  pretty 
clear  perception  of  the  nature  of  this  passion,  of  its  differ- 


280  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

ent  manifestations  in  persons  of  different  character,  and  of 
its  influence  upon  personal  conduct  and  upon  the  general 
surface  aspect  of  life.  The  perception  of  these  facts  Shaks- 
pere  seems  to  have  recorded  in  the  artistic  terms  of  the 
plot,  the  characterization,  and  the  atmosphere  or  back- 
ground of  Othello.  .  .  .  The  plot  shows  first  that  the 
fortuitous  meeting  of  Othello  and  Desdemona,  and  the 
existence  of  sexual  love  in  its  purer,  nobler  form  between 
them,  warped  the  life  of  each  from  that  normal  line  of  de- 
velopment which  their  environment  would  naturally  have 
determined.  These  lives  were  brought  to  a  tragic  end  by 
the  machinations  of  a  villain  actuated,  to  be  sure,  not  essen- 
tially by  lust,  but  by  ambition ;  the  special  direction  of 
which,  however,  was  given  by  a  desire  to  revenge  himself 
upon  two  men  —  Cassio  and  Othello  —  whom  he  sus- 
pected of  intrigue  with  his  wife.  .  .  .  The  characteriza- 
tion is  even  more  significant  than  the  plot  of  Shakspere's 
perception  of  the  power  of  sexual  love  as  a  motive  force  in 
life.  Not  a  character  of  any  importance  but  is  subject  to 
this  passion  in  some  form.  In  Desdemona  it  was  of 
course  beautifully  pure  and  ideal;  in  Othello  not  so  much 
of  the  beast  had  been  worked  out ;  ...  in  lago  there  was 
just  enough  of  this  passion  to  keep  him  from  being  a  mere 
flame  of  villany — in  which  respect  he  is  singularly  like 
Goneril  and  Regan;  inRoderigo  was  the  mere  gross  sensu- 
ality, of  which  [a  comparison  of  Othello  with  its  sources 
shows  that]  Shakspere  deliberately  relieved  lago;  in 
Emilia,  the  vulgar  half-virtue  could  become,  for  reason 
enough,  something  worse;  in  Cassio  and  Bianca  the  pas- 
sion .  .  .  was  manifest  in  its  mercenary  aspect.  In  no 
case,  except  that  of  Bianca,  did  this  passion  operate,  as  a 
motive  force,  in  the  form  of  mere  jealousy." 


OTHELLO  281 

Mere  jealousy,  however,  without  subtle  analysis, 
would  have  been  enough  finally  to  remind  us  that  the 
concentrated  passion  and  power  of  Othello  only  inten- 
sify the  old  motive  of  the  mystery  inherent  in  the  fact 
that  men  are  men  and  women  are  women.  Jealousy, 
after  all,  is  but  a  new  phase  of  this,  and  a  more  ab- 
sorbing. Again,  the  fact  that  Othello's  jealousy  is 
really  groundless  revives  the  old  motive  of  self-decep- 
tion, now  become  fiercely  tragic.  The  way,  further- 
more, in  which  every  one  is  juggled  with  by  lago,  to 
an  end  ultimately  abortive,  is  a  fresh,  more  limited 
expression  of  the  ironical  motive.  Here,  indeed,  we 
have  such  a  tragedy  as  but  for  the  blundering  of  clowns 
might  have  happened  in  Leonato's  city  of  Messina. 

Considering  Othello  as  a  technical  work  of  art,  one 
first  notices  the  surprising  theatrical  skill  of  its 
construction.  One  thinks  of  it  generally  as  a  series 
of  sustained,  crescent  scenes  and  situations,  still  ad- 
mirable on  the  stage,  which  lead  the  story  straight 
from  its  romantic  beginning  to  its  tragic  end.  So 
constantly  are  the  characters  subordinated  to  their 
dramatic  purpose  —  saying,  doing,  thinking,  being 
little  else  than  what  the  plot  demands  — that  only 
when  we  consider  them  apart  do  we  begin  to  appre- 
ciate how  thoroughly  each,  from  greatest  to  smallest, 
is  individual. 

Most  individual  of  all,  perhaps,  is  lago.  Concerning 
lago,  Mr.  Greene's  notes  are  suggestive.  Referring 
to  his  belief  that  in  Othello  Shakspere  meant  to  re- 
turn to  convention,  lie  declares  lago  to  be 


282  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

''  the  most  striking  illustration  of  this  attempted  reaction, 
lago  is  undoubtedly  built  up  from  the  conventional  villain. 
The  traces  of  the  original  are  still  evident  in  his  essential 
devilishness.  Crime  is  pleasant  to  him.  T  will  not  assert 
that  such  a  man  cannot  exist;  but  I  know  that  he  is  im- 
probable. Shakspere,  however,  started  out  with  him,  and 
having  done  so  imagined  him  so  really  .  .  .  that  he  is  plau- 
sible. Shakspere  gives  him  motives  not  strong  enough  for 
a  healthy  mind  ;  they  are  not  enough  to  make  him  real. 
His  cynical  worldly  wisdom,  though,  added  to  his  appa- 
rent blunt  honesty,  makes  him  alive  as  a  thinker,  in  spite 
of  his  conventional  origin  .  .  .  and  of  the  frequently  con- 
ventional method  by  which  Shakspere  treats  him.  lago 
is  made  to  go  into  direct  self-revelation  by  monologue  to 
an  exaggerated  extent ;  .  .  .  and  yet  lago  is  alive.  This 
life  comes  from  the  things  which  lago  says  and  does  that 
astound  you  by  the  absolute  certainty  that  he,  not  Shaks- 
pere, did  or  said  them.  For  instance,  when  the  fiend 
kneels  with  Othello^  we  are  astonished,  while  we  know 
that  he  did  it.  Shakspere's  insight  is  what  saves  the 
play,  and,  indeed,  keeps  the  careless  reader  from  guessing 
how  nearly  it  is  a  conventional  gore-piece." 

This  criticism  touches  on  a  phase  of  lago  which  is 
not  generally  noticed.  His  motives,  it  says,  are  not 
strong  enough  for  a  healthy  mind.  As  Mr.  Young's 
criticism  suggested,  indeed,  the  lago  of  Shakspere 
has  distinctly  less  motive  than  the  character  in  Cin- 
thio's  novel  from  which  he  is  developed ;  that  per- 
sonage was  possessed  by  the  passion  for  his  general's 
wife  which  Shakspere  has  transferred  to  the  witless 

1  III.  Hi.  461. 


OTHELLO  283 

Roderigo.  Yet  in  this  drama  of  which  the  chief 
trait  is  concentration,  lago,  for  all  his  lack  of  mo- 
tive, seems  concentration  personified.  Diabolical,  one 
feels  like  calling  him,  —  diabolical  both  in  the  inhu- 
man activity  of  his  intelligence  and  in  the  inhuman 
concentration  of  his  almost  motiveless  evil  purpose. 
Yet  lago  is  not  a  devil;  though  horribly  abnormal, 
he  remains  comprehensibly  human.  Not  diabolical, 
then,  but  abnormal,  we  find  him.  It  is  only  a  step 
further  to  feel  that  his  abnormal  activity  and  abnor- 
mal concentration  of  mind  arc  almost  maniacal. 
Then  look  at  his  last  speech  :  ^  — 

"  Demand  me  nothing  :  what  you  know,  you  know : 
From  this  time  forth  I  never  will  speak  word." 

Without  being  an  expert  in  lunacy,  one  knows  of  the 
silent,  glaring  madmen.  It  is  with  figures  like  these 
that  lago  ranges  himself  at  last. 

The  notion  that  lago  was  mad  would  probably 
have  been  new  to  Shakspere.  To  Shakspere,  lago 
would  probably  have  seemed,  like  Hamlet  and  Fal- 
staff  and  all  the  rest  before  him,  only  one  of  those 
mysterious  creatures  of  imagination  who  somehow 
grow  into  independent  existence.  Hamlet,  to  be 
sure,  might  seem  mad  to  some,  who  were  welcome 
to  think  him  so  if  they  chose  ;  even  Othello  might 
seem  swept  by  self-deluding  passion  beyond  the  verge 
of  reason  ;  but  lago  —  cool,  cunning,  shrewd  —  could 
never  seem  anything  but  an  incarnation  of  diabolical 

1  V.  ii.  303. 


284  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

intelligence.  This  very  fact  throws  startling  light 
on  the  state  of  Shakspere's  mind.  The  Shakspere  of 
Othello  is  quite  as  sane  and  as  masterly  as  the  Shaks- 
pere of  Hamlet ;  but,  like  the  Shakspere  who  created 
Hamlet,  the  Shakspere  who  created  lago  sympatheti- 
cally understood,  while  at  the  same  time  he  utterly 
controlled,  a  specific  phase  of  madness. 

Here,  then,  is  an  analogy,  both  to  Hamlet  and  to 
King  Lear^  which  has  not  been  generally  remarked. 
Throughout  the  period  of  his  great  tragedies,  Shaks- 
pere gave  evidence,  partly  unwitting,  that  he  under- 
stood madness.  Such  an  analogy  as  this  is  probably 
too  subtle  to  have  been  known  to  the  man  whose 
mental  state  it  illustrates.  An  analogy  of  which,  on 
the  other  hand,  he  might  probably  have  been  aware 
is  that  which  has  already  been  pointed  out  between 
Cressida  and  Desdemona,^  In  character,  as  well  as 
aspect,  Desdemona  and  Cressida  have  one  common 
trait :  both  arc  untruthful.  In  Cressida  the  fact  is 
constantly  palpable ;  in  Desdemona  one  feels  it  less. 
Look  at  the  indirectness  of  her  coquetry,  though,  in 
half  wooing  Othello  ;  ^  look  at  Brabantio's  last  speech 
to  her,3  true  enough  to  contain  the  seed  of  final  evil ; 
look  at  her  prevarication  about  the  handkerchief.* 
For  all  her  tenderness  and  purity,  Desdemona's  word 
is  not  always  to  be  trusted.  There  is  something  in 
her  nature,  as  well  as  in  her  aspect,  which  groups  her 
with  the  Trojan  wanton,  giving  color  to  the  slanders 

1  See  p.  275.  2  i.  n;.  145-170. 

3  Ibid.  293.  «  III.  iv.  23-29,  52-102. 


OTHELLO  285 

of  lago.  The  more  one  studies  these  characters  to- 
gether, the  more  alike  they  seem. 

Desdemona,  however,  is  in  no  sense  a  repetition  of 
Cressida.  Like  every  other  character  in  Othello  she 
is  completely  individual.  This  thorough  individuali- 
zation of  character  gives  Othello  its  specific  atmos- 
phere. The  presence  of  so  many  real  people  involves 
a  real  world  for  them  to  live  and  move  in.  One  asks 
no  questions  as  to  what  or  where  this  world  is ;  one 
accepts  it ;  and  finally  one  grows  aware  that  it  is  not 
only  real,  but  actually  foreign  to  England.  Here  we 
touch  on  one  of  the  most  marked  traits  of  Othello. 
Exactly  how  one  cannot  say,  the  play  is  consummately 
Italian,  —  a  more  veracious  piece  of  creative  fiction 
than  was  ever  made  by  all  the  scribblers  of  pedanti- 
cally accurate  detail.  In  origin,  of  course,  the  plot  is 
Italian ;  the  characters  fit  the  plot  so  perfectly,  that 
they  and  their  background  alike  become  Italian,  too. 
See  Othello  played  by  an  Italian  company,  and  you 
will  feel  this  more  and  more.  For  all  that  you  lose  the 
wonderful  poetry  of  the  lines,  you  often  seem  nearer 
the  truth  than  any  English  actors  can  bring  you. 

To  lose  the  poetry  of  Othello.,  however,  to  lose  any 
detail  of  its  style,  is  to  lose  much.  This  style  is  very 
difFerent  from  that  of  Measure  for  Measure.,  of  Troilus 
and  Cressida.,  and  of  other  plays,  still  to  come,  where 
the  lines  are  overcharged  with  meaning.  Almost 
every  line  of  Othello  is  so  adapted  to  its  purpose  that 
we  accept  speech  after  speech  as  actual  utterances. 
On  consideration,  however,  wc  find  that  nol)ody  has 


286  WILLIAM  bHAKSPERE 

been  speaking  the  plain  dialect  of  daily  life ;  one 
and  all  the  personages  have  sustained  throughout 
the  lasting  elevation  of  poetry.  The  delight  the  style 
has  given  us,  then,  proves  different  from  what  we  first 
thought  it  —  or,  better,  more  profound.  Not  only  is 
every  word  in  character,  but  every  word  also  adds  to 
the  beauty  of  a  noble  tragic  poem.  No  style  could  be 
theoretically  better. 

The  superficial  simplicity  of  Othello  strengthens 
the  general  impression  which  the  play  makes.  By 
this  time  we  have  seen  enough  of  Shakspere  to  un- 
derstand that  some  of  his  works  seem  more  con- 
sciously self-revealing  than  others.  In  some,  at 
least,  one  feels  that  he  must  liave  been  aware  of 
the  underlying  motive  :  as  an  artist,  for  example, 
whatever  his  private  convictions,  Shakspere  must 
have  realized  the  beauty  of  the  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream^  the  patriotic  didacticism  of  Henry  F!,  the 
passionate  art  of  the  Sonnets,  the  irony  of  Julius 
Ccesar,  the  mystery  of  Hamlet,  the  grim  philosophy 
of  Measure  for  Measure.  In  other  works,  one  feels 
that  to  Shakspere  himself  the  effects  detected  by 
modern  criticism  would  have  been  surprises ;  his 
effort,  one  feels,  was  simply,  with  full  control  of 
his  power,  to  express  a  mood  or  a  fact  which  seemed 
wholly  foreign  to  himself:  such,  for  example,  would 
be  the  sentimental  tragedy  of  Romeo  and  Juliet,  the 
romantic  comedy  of  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  the  un- 
controllable vitality  of  Falstaff.  It  is  among  these 
works,  which  to  the  artist  we  may  suppose  to  have 


KING   LEAR  287 

seemed  thoroughly  objective,  that  we  may  most  rea- 
sonably class  Othello. 

Objective  and  concentrated,  then,  vre  may  believe 
Shakspere  to  have  deemed  this  tremendous  study  of 
an  isolated  passion ;  purely  artistic  in  motive,  beyond 
the  plays  lately  considered.  Modern  analysis,  how- 
ever, can  discover  in  Othello  unsuspected  analogies 
to  the  work  about  it.  One  of  these  is  its  irony  ;  its 
constant  dwelling  on  the  mysteries  of  sex  is  another ; 
others  still  are  the  maniacal  activity  and  concentra- 
tion of  lago,  the  Cressid-like  surface  of  Desdemona, 
the  fatal  self-deception  of  Othello.  Whatever  be  the 
truth  of  our  chronology,  in  short,  Othello  is  surely 
such  a  work  as  one  might  expect  after  Hamlet  and 
Measure  for  Measure  and  Troilus  and  Cressida. 


VIII.  —  King  Lear. 

["  Master  William  Shakespeare  his  historye  of  Kinge  Lear,  as  >'t  was 
played  before  the  Kinges  Majestie  at  Whitehall  uppon  Sainct  Stephens 
night  at  Christmas  last "  was  entered  in  the  Stationers'  Register  on 
November  26th,  1607.  The  play  thus  entered  was  twice  published  in 
quarto  during  1608.  In  each  case  the  titlepage  is  peculiar,  reading  as 
follows :  — 

"  M.  William  Shake-speare, 

HIS 

Tme  Chronicle  History  of  the  life 

and  death  of  King  Lear,  and  his 

three  Daughters 

With  the  unfortunate  life  o/*  Edgar 

Bonne  and  heire  to  the  Earle  of  Glocester,  and 

his  sullen  and  assumed  humour  of    ToM 

of  Bedlam. 


288  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

At  the  head  of  the  text  is  a  similarly  peculiar  title  :  — 

"  M.  William  Shake-speare 

HIS 

History,  of  King  Lear." 

This  unique  emphasis  on  the  name  of  Shakspere  is  probably  due  to  the 
publication  in  1605  of  an  old  play,  entered  in  the  Stationers'  Register 
on  May  8,  1605,  as  "The  Tragical  History  of  King  Leir  and  his  three 
daughters,  as  it  was  lately  acted  ; "  but  really  rather  a  comic  than  a 
tragic  chronicle-history.  This  publication  is  believed  to  have  been  an 
attempt  to  avail  of  the  popularity  of  Shakspere's  play. 

The  probable  sources  of  Shakspere's  King  Lear  are  this  old  play 
and  the  chronicle  of  Holinshed  ;  and,  for  tlie  story  of  Gloster,  the  tale 
of  the  blind  king  of  Paphlagonia  in  Sidney's  Arcadia.  The  story  of 
Lear,  however,  was  familiar,  existing  in  many  early  versions,  of  which 
the  most  familiar  is  Spenser's. ^ 

From  various  internal  evidence,  together  with  the  publication  of  the 
rival  play,  King  Lear  is  generally  assigned  to  1605.] 

One  is  apt  to  forget  that  a  play  which  seems  so 
modern  as  Othello  was  made  for  the  Elizabethan 
theatre.  After  Othello,  then,  we  need  some  sharp 
reminder  that  this  Shakspere  whom  we  are  study- 
ing could  never  have  dreamt  of  such  a  stage  or 
such  a  world  as  ours.  We  could  have  none  sharper 
than  we  find  in  King  Lear. 

Whether  you  read  this  great  tragedy,  or  see  it  on 
the  stage,  the  effect  produced  by  any  single  and  swift 
consideration  of  it  must  nowadays  be  one  of  murky, 
passionate,  despairing  confusion.  The  common  an- 
swer to  any  consequent  complaint,  is  that  to  appreciate 
King  Lear  you  should  study  it.  This  is  perfectly 
true.     Equally  true,  liowever,  is  a  fact  not  so  often 

1  Faerie  Queene,  II.  x.  27-32. 


KING   LP:aR  289 

emphasized  :  Kiny  Lear  was  certainly  meant  to  be 
acted  ;  and  wlien  a  play  is  acting  neither  players  nor 
audience  are  at  liberty  to  stop  for  reflective  comment. 
Far  more  than  a  novel,  or  a  poem,  or  any  piece  of 
pure  literature,  a  play,  which  is  made  to  be  played 
straioht  throuo-h,  must  be  conceived  bv  both  its  maker 
and  its  audiences  as  a  unit.  In  criticising  any  stage- 
play,  this  fact  should  never  be  forgotten.  Whoever 
remembers  it  will  probably  continue  to  find  King 
Lear,  read  or  seen  at  a  single  sitting,  magnificently 
confused. 

For  this  there  are  several  obvious  reasons.  In  the 
first  place,  the  style  of  the  play  is  overpacked  with 
meaning ;  in  the  second  place,  the  situations  are  so 
often  rather  intellectually  than  visibly  dramatic  that 
to  see  them  helps  little  toward  their  interpretation  ; 
in  the  third  place,  the  technical  traits  which  probably 
made  King  Lear  popular  with  Elizabethan  audiences 
belong,  far  more  than  is  usual  in  Shakspere's  later 
work,  to  the  obsolete  conditions  of  Shakspere's  time. 

Two  or  three  examples  may  serve  to  emphasize  the 
excessive  compactness  of  King  Lear.  Perhaps  none 
are  more  to  our  purpose  than  may  be  found  in  the 
trial  by  battle.^  This  clearly  revives  a  situation  pre- 
viously used  with  effect,  —  perhaps  in  the  combat  be- 
tween Hector  and  Ajax,^  and  certainly  in  the  trial  at 
arms  between  Plamlet  and  Laertes,  and  in  the  final 
struggle  between  Richard  III.  and  Richmond.     Dis- 

1  V.  iii.  107-150. 

^  Truihis  and  Cressida,  IV.  v.  65-117. 
19 


290  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

tinctly  the  most  elaborate  previous  use  of  it,  however, 
and  the  use  most  similar  to  what  we  find  here,  occurred 
in  Richard  II.  There  the  first  122  lines  of  the  third 
scene  are  given  to  the  trial  by  battle  between  Boling- 
broke  and  Norfolk.  Every  one  of  these  lines  is  a 
sonorous  piece  of  half-operatic  verse ;  though  they  do 
not  mean  much,  they  sound  splendidly ;  and  no  mat- 
ter how  fast  the  actors  should  rattle  them  off,  there  is 
no  serious  danger  of  obscurity.  The  first  challenge  ^ 
is  a  fair  example  of  the  whole  scene  :  — 

"  Mar.  In  God's  name  and  the  king's,  say  who  thou  art 
And  why  thou  comest  thus  knightly  clad  in  arms, 
Against  what  man  thou  comest,  and  what  thy  quarrel : 
Speak  truly,  on  thy  knighthood  and  thy  oath ; 
As  so  defend  thee  heaven  and  thy  valour  ! 

Mow.  My  name  is  Thomas  Mowbray,  Duke  of  Norfolk; 
Who  hither  come  engaged  by  my  oath  — 
Which  God  defend  a  knight  should  violate  !  — 
Both  to  defend  my  loyalty  and  truth 
To  God,  my  king  and  my  succeeding  issue, 
Against  the  Duke  of  Hereford  that  appeals  me; 
And,  by  the  grace  of  God  and  this  mine  arm, 
To  prove  him,  in  defending  of  myself, 
A  traitor  to  my  God,  my  king,  and  me: 
And  as  I  truly  fight,  defend  me  heaven ! " 

Compare  with  this  the  challenge  in  King  Lear :  ^  — 

•'  Her.  What  are  you  ? 

Your  name,  your  quality  ?  and  why  you  answer 
This  present  summons  ? 

Edg.  Know,  my  name  is  lost; 

By  treason's  tooth  bare-gnawn  and  canker-bit : 
Yet  am  I  noble  as  the  adversary 
1  come  to  cope." 

1  Rich.  II.  I.  iii.  11-25.  2  y.  Hi.  119-124. 


KING    LEAR  291 

A  little  later  in  the  scene  Edmund  thus  returns  the 
lie  to  Edgar :  ^  — 

"Back  do  I  toss  these  treasons  to  thy  head; 
With  the  hell-hated  lie  o'erwhehu  thy  heart; 
Which,  for  they  yet  glance  by  and  scarcely  bruise, 
This  aword  of  mine  shall  give  them  instant  way, 
Where  they  shall  rest  for  ever.     Trumpets,  speak  !  " 

Read  these  last  two  speeches  as  fast  as  an  actor, 
duly  counterfeiting  the  excitement  of  the  moment, 
must  give  them,  and  you  will  find  that  they  puzzle 
any  hearer  who  does  not  know  them  by  heart.  The 
contrast  shown  by  these  quotations  persists  through- 
out the  scenes  in  question.  In  Richard  II.  the  trial 
by  battle  fills  122  lines,  and  even  then  only  begins  ; 
in  44  lines  of  King  Lear,  which  involve  vastly  more 
dramatic  expression  of  character  than  is  found  in  the 
older  scene,  the  trial  by  battle  is  carried  to  an  end. 

Actual  compactness,  then,  is  one  reason  why  the 
style  of  King  Lear  is  at  first  glance  obscure.  Philoso- 
phizing thrown  in  with  no  dramatic  purpose  often 
deepens  the  obscurity.  In  the  first  scene  of  the 
fourth  act,  for  example,  Edgar  enters  and  soliloquizes 
thus  :  — 

"  Yet  better  thus,  and  known  to  be  contemn'd, 
Than  still  contemn'd  and  flatter'd.     To  be  worst, 
The  lowest  and  most  dejected  thing  of  fortune. 
Stands  still  in  esperance,  lives  not  in  fear  : 
The  lamentable  change  is  from  the  best; 

1  Ibid.  146-150. 


292  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

The  worst  returns  to  laughter.     Welcome,  then, 
Thou  unsubstantial  air  that  I  embrace ! 
The  wretch  that  thou  hast  blown  unto  the  worst 
Owes  nothing  to  thy  blasts.     But  who  comes  here  ? " 

In  response  to  this  cue,  Gloster  enters,  blind,  and 
led  by  an  old  man,  to  whom  within  a  few  lines  he 
remarks  :  ^  — 

"  I  have  no  way,  and  therefore  want  no  eyes; 
I  stumbled  when  I  saw  :  full  oft  't  is  seen, 
Our  means  secure  us,  and  our  mere  defects 
Prove  our  commodities." 

Though  any  one  can  study  out  what  these  generali- 
zations mean,  no  human  being  could  ever  have  guessed 
from  a  single  hasty  hearing ;  yet,  apart  from  their 
actual  meaning,  they  have  no  dramatic  use.  The 
truth  is  that  such  detailed  illustration  of  the  obscurity 
which  pervades  King  Lear  was  probably  needless. 
Open  the  play  anywhere,  read  a  dozen  lines,  and  you 
will  find  yourself  either  amazed  by  their  concentrated 
significance,  or  puzzled  by  their  excessive  compact- 
ness. On  the  stage  such  a  style  could  never  have 
been  effective. 

Ineffective  on  the  stage,  too,  for  all  the  intellec- 
tually dramatic  strength  of  their  conception,  are 
many  notable  situations  in  King  Lear.  A  single 
example  will  serve  our  purpose  :  take  the  great 
sixth  scene  of  the  third  act,  where  mad  King  Lear, 
and  his  mournful  Fool,  and  Edgar,  who  feigns  mad- 
ness, sit   together,   like   a   court   in    bank,  to   judge 

1  Lines  20-23. 


KING   LEAR  293 

an  imaginary  Goneril  and  Regan.  However  skilfully 
this  be  played,  the  grotesqueness  of  the  three  mad 
figures  is  bound  to  distract  any  modern  mind  from 
the  tragic  significance  of  the  situation  Yet,  to  any 
modern  mind,  the  thought  of  regarding  such  a  scene 
as  grotesque  is  repellent. 

So  we  come  to  the  third  reason  why  King  Lear  is 
nowadays  puzzling.  The  superficial  grotesqueness  of 
that  very  scene  clearly  suggests  this  reason. 

Glance  at  the  titlepage  of  the  quarto.  King  Lear 
was  evidently  set  forth  as  a  chronicle-history  ;  and 
indeed  it  differs  from  what  we  still  recognize  as 
chronicle-history  more  in  substance  than  in  manner. 
Nowadays  we  make  a  sharp  distinction  between  Plan- 
tagenets  and  the  legendary  sovereigns  of  prehistoric 
Britain.  Holinshed  makes  little ;  no  Elizabethan  au- 
dience would  have  made  much;  and  King  Lear 
is  translated  straight  from  Holinshed  to  the  Eliza- 
bethan stage.  A  playwright  who  should  make  a 
popular  chronicle-history,  however,  was  bound  to 
translate  his  material  into  popular  terms.  In  the 
case  of  King  Lear^  the  rival  quarto  of  1605  and  the 
emphasis  on  Shakspere's  name  in  the  two  quartos  of 
1608  go  far  to  prove  that,  at  least  when  new,  Shaks- 
pere's chronicle-history  of  King  Lear  was  popular. 
Clearly  this  must  have  been  in  spite  of  the  undue 
compactness  of  style  which  gives  us  fresh  evidence 
of  Shakspere's  abnormal  mental  activity.  At  first 
sight,  too,  this  popularity  would  seem  to  have  existed 
in  spite  of  the  essentially  unactable  quality  of  such 
scenes  as  that  where  the  mad  court  sits. 


294  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERP: 

Glance  again,  though,  at  the  titlepage.  Remember 
that  on  the  titlepage  of  the  quarto  of  Henry  IV. 
Falstaff  had  as  much  room  as  the  King  ;  and  that  on 
the  titlepage  of  the  quarto  of  Henry  V.  there  was  al- 
most as  much  space  given  to  Ancient  Pistol.  Clearly 
enough,  these  were  the  brands  of  comic  sauce  which 
added  relish  to  the  serious  portions  of  the  older 
chronicle-histories.  On  the  titlepage  of  King  Lear 
we  find  the  same  prominence  given  to  "  Edgar,  sonne 
and  heire  to  the  Earle  of  Glocester,  and  his  sullen 
and  assumed  humour  of  Tom  of  Bedlam."  Startling 
as  the  obvious  conclusion  may  seem,  it  is  unavoid- 
able :  the  character  of  Edgar,  at  least  so  far  as  his 
feigned  madness  went,  was  intended  to  be  broadly 
comic.  In  this  respect,  too,  it  was  not  peculiar  but 
conventional.  To  go  no  further,  consider  the  comic 
scenes  of  Middleton's  Changeling ;  and  that  dance  of 
madmen  in  Webster's  Duchess  of  Malfi,  which  nowa- 
days seems  so  inexplicable.  Once  for  all,  the  ravings 
of  actual  madness  were  conventionally  accepted  as 
comic  by  an  Elizabethan  audience,  just  as  drunken- 
ness is  so  accepted  to-day. 

Grasp  this  fact,  and  you  will  find  the  strangest  of 
transformations  in  King  Lear  himself.  Shakspere 
never  conceived  a  character  with  deeper  sympathetic 
insight.  Nowadays,  that  is  what  we  think  of,  just 
as  nowadays  we  think  of  Shylock's  profound  human 
nature.^  To  go  no  further  than  the  scene  of  the  mad 
court,  however,  Lear  is  shown  to  us  as  a  raving  mad- 
man, and  as  such  still  looks  grotesque.     When  Shaks- 

^  See  p.  151  seq. 


KING  LEAR  295 

pere  wrote,  this  grotesquencss,  to-day  so  repellent, 
was  a  thing  in  which  audiences  were  accustomed  to 
delight.  Only  when  we  understand  that  King  Lear, 
for  all  his  marvellous  pathos,  was  meant,  in  scene 
after  scene,  to  impress  an  audience  as  comic,  can 
we  begin  to  understand  the  theatrical  intention  of 
Shakspere's  tragedy. 

Conventionally  comic  in  this  aspect,  the  part  of 
King  Lear  appealed  also  to  another  Elizabethan  taste 
of  which  little  trace  remains.  As  any  of  the  old 
tragedies  of  blood  or  chronicle-histories  will  show, 
Elizabethan  audiences  delighted  in  sonorous  rant.  If 
no,  traces  of  the  older  plays  were  left,  Hamlet's  ad- 
vice to  the  players  ^  would  suggest  this,  as  well  as 
the  existence  of  a  ripening  taste  which  deprecated 
undue  bombast.  At  the  same  time,  this  ripening 
taste,  according  to  Ben  Jonson,^  had  not  prevailed  even 
in  1614,  when  there  were  still  men  left  to  "  sweare 
Jeronimo  or  Andronieus  are  the  best  playcs."  How 
to  gratify  this  taste  for  rant  without  violating  pro- 
priety, then,  was  a  fine  artistic  problem.  Shakspere 
solved  it  in  the  tremendously  ranting  speeches  which 
fitly  express  the  madness  of  Lear.  At  once  ranting 
and  grotesque,  the  madness  of  Lear,  to-day  so  su- 
premely and  solely  tragic,  was  probably  the  trait  which 
chiefly  made  the  Elizabethan  public  relish  this  play. 

To  dwell  on  these  obsolete,  archaic  traits  of  Kimj 
Lear  has  been  doubly  worth  our  while.     They  should 

1  Hamlet,  III.  ii. 

*  Induction  to  Bartholomew  Fair.     See  p.  66. 


296  AVILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

serve,  in  the  first  place,  to  remind  us  of  what  we  have 
lately  inclined  to  forget,  —  that,  with  all  their  lasting 
greatness,  Shakspere's  tragedies  were  made  for  con- 
ditions so  remote  from  ours  that  any  student  who 
should  neglect  their  history  runs  constant  risk  of  mis- 
understanding. In  the  second  place,  more  notably 
still,  such  obsolete  Elizabethan  traits  as  probably 
secured  the  early  popularity  of  King  Lear  are  traits 
which  the  author  must  deliberately  have  introduced. 
Without  meaning  to,  an  artist  may  imply  endless 
truth ;  when  his  art  adapts  his  work  to  a  popular 
demand,  however,  he  can  hardly  be  unaware  of  it. 

The  traits  which  make  King  Lear  permanently 
great,  on  the  other  hand,  are  very  different  from 
what  we  have  considered.  No  popular  audience  could 
ever  much  have  relished  them.  They  are  the  traits 
of  thought,  of  imagination,  of  diction  alike,  which  are 
generally  characteristic  of  Shakspere.  Nowhere  do 
they  appear,  on  study,  more  distinctly.  No  play  of 
Shakspere's  more  surely  rewards  elaborate  considera- 
tion. A  single  example  will  suffice  us, — the  excel- 
lent reasons  which  Goneril  and  Regan  have  to  justify 
what  is  commonly  held  to  be  their  gross  ingratitude. 

In  the  fij'st  place,  these  women  have  inherited  from 
their  father  an  impetuous,  overbearing  temper,  of  the 
kind  which  is  especially  sensitive  to  the  exhibition  of 
its  own  weaknesses  by  other  people.  Constitutionally, 
then,  they  would  be  specially  liable  to  provocation  by 
a  man  so  like  them  as  their  father.  In  the  second 
place,  their  elaborate  professions  of  filial  devotion  are 


KING   LEAR  297 

not  cssciitiiilly   insincere  ;    they  are  simply  elaljurute 
manifestations  of  such  formal  etiquette  as  still  ajjpcars 
ill  the  formuhe  of  correspondence.    Cordelia's  sincerity 
is  an  excess  of  not  too  mannerly  virtue;  Gonerirs  and 
Regan's    protestations  of    love   are   (July    what  court 
manners  conventionally  require.     Lear,  quartered  with 
(Joneril,  behaves  outrageously,^  and  she  is  justifiably 
angry  ;  her  anger  manifests  itself,  characteristically, 
not    by  a  direct   outburst,    but    by   orders,    quite    in 
accordance  with   court  etiquette,  that  Lear  and  his 
j'owdies    be  treated  with    abruptness.      Just    at   this 
moment,  Lear   engages   as  a  servant   the   disguised 
Earl  of  Kent,  a  very  loyal,  but  a  very  hot-tempered  ^ 
nobleman.2     When  Goneril's  steward  is  rude  to  Lear, 
Kent  —  believed  to  be  an  ordinary   serving  man  — 
trips   the   steward  up,  thereby   giving    full    color  to 
the  worst  tales  of  Lear's  rowdyism.     Goneril  there- 
upon, in   fierce  temper,  remonstrates.      Whereupon, 
amid  the  noisy  chatter  of  his  Fool,  Lear,  instead  of 
listening  to  reason,  proceeds  to  curse  her,  to  rave,  and 
to  rush  off  to  Regan.      Naturally   incensed,   Goneril 
sends  to  Regan  an  unvarnished  statement  of  what 
has  occurred.      Her  messenger  is  the  very  steward 
whom  Kent  has  thrashed.     Kent  meets  him  at  Glos- 
ter's  castle;  3    and    addresses  him    in    a  way  which, 
while    perhaps  tolerable  from  a  nobleman  to  a  ser- 
vant, is  quite  intolerable  between  men  of  equal  rank, 
which  the  disguise  of  Kent  makes  them  appear.     An- 
other quarrel  ensues.     Regan  and  her  husband  come 

1  1.  iii.  2  1.  iv.  ^  II.* ii. 


298  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

on  the  scene,  to  receive  from  Kent,  Lear's  messenger, 
no  more  explanation  of  his  violent  behavior  than  that 
lie  does  not  like  the  countenance  of  Goneril's  steward. 
Cornwall,  Regan's  husband,  suggests  that  his  own 
personal  appearance,  or  Regan's,  might  perhaps  be 
equally  distasteful.     To  which  Kent  answers,^  — 

"  Sir,  'tis  my  occupation  to  be  plain  : 
I  have  seen  better  faces  in  my  time 
Than  stands  on  any  shoulder  that  I  see 
Before  me  at  this  instant." 

Such  conduct  in  a  man  whom  nobody  dreams  to  be 
anything  but  a  common  servant,  merits  the  stocks. 
The  worst  stories  of  Goneril  are  confirmed,  before 
Regan  hears  them,  by  this  scandalous  conduct  of 
Lear's  insolent  follower.  When  Lear  arrives,^  Regan, 
once  for  all,  will  no  more  harbor  rowdyism  than  will 
Goneril.  Lear's  behavior  is  in  no  way  conciliatory. 
Finally,  before  he  plunges  off  into  the  storm,  both  of 
his  daughters  have  been  worked  up  into  such  a  rage 
that  if  they  had  acted  as  modern  moralists  command 
they  would  certainly  have  been  too  good  for  human 
nature.  Given  their  temperaments,  the  conduct  of 
Lear,  and  the  misunderstanding  involved  in  the  clash 
between  the  character  and  the  disguise  of  Kent,  and 
nothing  could  be  more  humanly  justifiable  than  their 
behavior.  Yet  so  carefully  is  the  intention  of  the 
plot  preserved  that  to  this  day  these  passionate,  hu- 
man women  are  considered  to  be  what  Lear  and  the 

,    1  Lines  98-101.  2  Ji,  iv. 


KING  LEAR  299 

audience  were  expected  to  find  them,  —  monsters  of 
ingratitude. 

To  a  student  such  not  obvious  but  clearly  discover- 
able traits  as  this,  make  any  work  of  art  fascinating ; 
and  King  Lear  constantly  rewards  minute  criticism. 
Some  have  made  a  pathologic  study  of  Lear's  madness  ; 
others  have  delighted  in  aesthetic  study  of  the  means 
by  which  so  painful  a  tragedy  has  been  made  to  pro- 
duce an  effect  of  lasting  beauty.  Any  study  of  Kin<i 
Lear  reaps  rich  results.  The  intensity,  the  concen- 
tration of  the  play  makes  many  critics  speak  of  it 
as  Shakspcre's  masterpiece. 

This  criticism  is  surely  not  final.  Vastly  though 
King  Lear  reward  study,  it  surely  demands  study  ; 
and  a  masterpiece  should  possess  not  only  the  com- 
plexity but  also  the  simplicity  of  greatness.  Sim- 
plicity King  Lear  lacks,  from  the  constant  intensity 
of  its  concentration.  Almost  every  other  trait  of 
greatness,  however,  it  possesses;  among  them  the 
trait  that,  whether  we  understand  it  or  not,  it  j)ro- 
duces  an  emotional  effect  peculiarly  its  own.  The 
mood  which  underlies  it  is  hard  to  phrase ;  murky, 
one  may  call  it,  passionate,  despairing,  terrible,  tran- 
sitory —  and  never  be  much  nearer  the  truth  than 
one  began. 

In  this  mood,  however,  there  is  clearly  irony.  Men 
are  the  sport  of  fate,  as  surely  as  were  lago  and  Ilani- 
let  and  Brutus.  The  irony  of  King  Lear,  however, 
differs  from  the  irony  we  have  known  before  ;  it  is 
accompanied  by  a  rush  of  emotion  which  at  first  seems 


300  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

to  overpower  thought.  What  need  of  thought  ?  seems 
the  impulse  here:  thought  cannot  help  us  any  whither. 
To  the  winds  with  it !  Yet  yield  to  emotion  —  as 
Lear  yields  —  and  fate  is  just  as  pitiless  ;  fate  is  even 
more  horrible  still,  for  that  way  lies  madness.  Clearly 
enough,  in  this  conscious  presentation  of  madness 
there  is  trace  of  the  overwrought  state  of  mind  which 
revealed  itself  in  the  insane  concentration  of  lago,  in 
the  maniacal  intellectual  activity  of  Hamlet. 

Again,  in  the  villainy  of  Goneril  and  of  Regan,  in 
the  story  of  Edmund,  in  the  bitter  obscenities  of  Lear's 
ravings  and  of  the  Fool,  we  have  fresh  evidence  of  the 
sexual  mystery  so  constantly  touched  on  in  Othello, 
in  Troilus  and  Cressida,  in  Measure  for  Measure,  in 
Hamlet,  in  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well,  and  in  the 
Sonnets. 

Throughout  King  Lear,  too,  passionate  emotion 
sweeps  on  with  a  surge  hitherto  unfelt.  It  tran- 
scends all  human  power.  It  must  needs  be  set  in 
the  most  passionate  of  natural  backgrounds,  —  the 
fiercest  of  actual  tempests.  Such  critics  as  might 
feel  beneath  the  mood  of  Hamlet  a  lurking  musical 
cadence  could  find  no  hidden  music  here,  but  rather 
would  dream  of  the  roll  of  thunder  in  the  night. 

In  King  Lear,  however,  there  is  something  even 
more  profound  than  this  storm  of  passion.  Othello 
contained  wonderful  touches  of  concentrated  pathos ; 
every  one  must  find  them,  foi-  example,  in  the  last 
hours  of  Desdemona.^     In  King  Lear  one  feels  pathos 

1  Othello.  IV.  iii. 


KING   LEAR  301 

throughout.  Fate-ridden,  passionate  man  is  pitiful, 
pitiful.  Finally  comes  a  deeper  emotion  still.  Tiie 
storm  lulls  ;  death  reveals  itself,  no  longer  a  mys- 
tery, but  a  despairing  solution  of  the  problem  of  human 
agony.  Such  timid  dreams  as  Hamlet's  and  Clau- 
dio's  have  no  place  in  such  misery  as  Lear's.  There 
is  no  need  to  vex  ourselves  with  fancies  of  what  may 
lie  beyond.  Xo  world,  no  life  could  be  more  evil  than 
this  of  ours.  Kent's  farewell  to  the  old  King  ^  speaks 
the  final  word  of  King  Lear:  — 

"  Vex  not  his  ghost :  O,  let  him  pass !  he  hates  him 
That  would  upon  the  rack  of  this  tough  world 
Stretch  him  out  longer." 

This  overpowering  mood  which  underlies  King  Lear 
seems,  like  the  mood  of  Hamlet,  emotionally  sincere 
—  self-revealing— to  a  degree  unusual  with  Shakspere. 
To  know  such  a  mood,  one  grows  to  believe,  he  must 
have  penetrated,  really  or  sympathetically,  deeper  than 
we  have  yet  guessed  into  the  depths  of  spiritual  suf- 
fering. For  whoever  wrote  King  Lear  must  have 
been  intellectually  alert  to  the  verge  of  madness ; 
passionately  sensitive  the  while  to  all  the  misery 
he  perceived ;  ironical  yet  pitiful ;  kept  within  the 
bounds  of  sanity  mostly  by  the  blessed  accident  that 
he  had  mastered  and  controlled  a  great  art  of  ex- 
pression ;  and  yet  despite  his  art,  able  to  find  no  bet- 
ter comfort  for  all  this  misery  tha^i  the  certainty  that, 
at  all  events  as  we  know  life,  life  mercifully  ends. 

1  V.  iii.  313. 


302  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 


IX.    Macbeth. 

[The  first  record  of  Macbeth  is  iu  the  note-book  of  one  Dr.  Simon 
Forman,  who  saw  it  at  the  Globe  on  April  20th,  1610.  His  note 
which  is  too  long  for  quotation  here,  begins  thus  "  There  was  to  be 
observed,  first  how  Macbeth  and  Banquo,  two  noblemen  of  Scotland, 
riding  through  a  wood,  there  stood  before  them  three  women  Fairies, 
or  Xymphs,  and  saluted  Macbeth,  saying  tliree  times  unto  him,  Hail, 
King  of  Coder,  for  thou  shalt  be  a  King,  but  shalt  beget  no  Kings, 
etc  "  No  other  indubitable  mention  of  Macbeth  has  been  discovered 
until  its  entry  in  1 623,  and  its  publication  in  the  folio. 

Its  source,  like  that  of  King  Lear  and  the  chronicle-histories,  is 
Holinshed.     There  seems  to  have  been  an  earlier  play  on  the  subject. 

Macbeth,  in  its  present  condition,  is  evidently  incomplete,  —  either  an 
unfinished  sketch,  or  an  abridgment  of  a  finished  play.  There  has 
been  much  discussion  as  to  whether  much  of  the  witch-scenes  was 
not  probably  added  by  Middleton.  On  various  internal  grounds,  how- 
ever, including  the  fact  that  so-called  light  and  weak  endings  to  lines 
here  first  appear  to  any  considerable  degree,  Macbeth  has  generally 
been  assigned  to  about  1606.] 

At  a  glance  one  can  see  that  Macbeth  differs 
conspicuously  from  any  other  play  of  Shakspere's. 
It  is  comparatively  very  short,^  very  monotonous, 
and  very  firm.  There  is  hardly  any  underplot,  hardly 
any  comic  matter.  One  scene,  to  be  sure,  —  that  of 
the  bleeding  sergeant,^  —  is  so  archaic  as  to  suggest 
that  it  may  possibly  be  a  fragment  of  some  older  play  ; 

1  In  the  Globe  Shakespeare  it  occupies  22  pages,  while  Hamlet 
occupies  35,  and  King  Lear  and  Othello  each  occupy  about  32.  The 
Leopold  Shakspere,  p.  cxxiii.,  gives  Hamlet  3931  lines,  King  Lear 
3332,  Othello  3317,  and  Macbeth  2108. 

2  I.  ii. 


MACBETH  303 

another,  —  that  where  Macduff  and  Ross  meet  Malcolm 
in  England,^  —  while  taken  straight  from  Holinshed, 
is  so  highly  finished  as  to  suggest  either  that  it  is  the 
single  remaining  fragment  of  a  more  elaborate  play 
than  now  remains,  or  else  that  it  was  either  written  in 
a  momentary  lapse  of  mood,  or  inserted  later,  when 
the  emotional  impulse  which  pervades  Macbeth  had 
subsided.  Apart  from  these  scenes,  hardly  anything 
but  the  Witches  and  the  Porter  interrupts  the  swift, 
steady  progress  of  the  action. 

Similar  concentration  of  purpose  we  found  in  Othello. 
While  every  detail  of  Othello,  however,  is  developed 
with  masterly  care,  Macbeth  is  only  blocked  out  with 
masterly  firmness  of  hand ;  it  is  nowhere  elaborated. 
Not  long  ago,  an  Elizabethan  play  —  the  Maid's  Trag- 
edy, oi  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  —  was  adapted  for  a 
private  performance  by  the  simple  process  of  striking 
out  the  underplot,  and  whatever  else  did  not  concern 
the  principal  story.  The  result  was  a  short,  admi- 
rably dramatic  play,  remarkable  for  swift  firmness  of 
action  and  development,  but  somehow —  while  essen- 
tially complete —  subtly  unfinished.  In  other  words, 
after  due  allowance  for  the  difference  between  Shaks- 
pere  and  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  the  effect  produced 
by  thus  isolating  the  main  plot  of  the  Maid's  Tragedy 
was  closelv  analogous  to  the  effect  of  Macbeth. 

Macbeth,  in  short,  is  just  what  we  should  expect 
from  a  collaborator  who  had  agreed  to  furnish  the 
serious  part  of  a  chronicle-history,  or  a  tragedy,  to  be 

»  IV.  iii. 


304  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

completed  by  comic  scenes  from  somebody  else.  Bet- 
ter still,  perhaps,  it  is  what  we  should  expect  from 
an  Elizabethan  playwright  who,  carried  away  by  one 
aspect  of  his  subject,  had  finished  one  part  independ- 
ently, leaving  the  rest  for  some  future  moment  which 
never  came.  Equally,  of  course,  it  is  what  you  may 
make  of  any  complete  Elizabethan  tragedy  by  cutting 
out  everything  but  the  main  action.  If  it  were  ever 
finished,  this  is  probably  what  has  happened  to  it ;  if 
not,  the  play  gives  two  or  three  indications  of  why 
further  finish  may  have  seemed  needless.  One  of 
these  is  its  dramatic  effectiveness ;  it  still  acts  admi- 
rably. Another  is  that,  while  too  long  to  admit  a 
fully  developed  underplot  within  the  limits  of  a  single 
performance,  it  is  too  compact  to  be  abridged  without 
injury. 

As  to  whether  Macbethhe  a  sketch  or  an  abridgment 
there  is  no  direct  evidence.  Mr.  Fleay  ^  and  many 
other  competent  critics  believe  it  an  abridgment.  The 
analogies  between  the  witch-scenes  and  Middleton's 
Witch  2  might  be  held  to  point  the  other  way.  Con- 
ceivably they  might  indicate  that  the  witch-scenes  in 
the  original  play  were  so  slight  as  to  need  augmenta- 
tion ;  if  so,  there  would  be  a  little  reason  to  believe 
Macbeth  not  an  abridgment  but  a  sketch.  The  gen- 
eral effect  of  the  style,  too,  points  slightly  towards  the- 
same  conclusion ;  throughout  the  play  there  is  such; 

1  Life,  238-242. 

2  Discussed  in  Furness,  Varioru7n  Shakespeare :  Macbeth,  pp.  SSS'**- 
405. 


MACBETH  305 

swift  precision  of  touch  as  one  would  expect  in  a 
hasty,  consecutive  piece  of  master-work.  What  Mac- 
beth lacks,  too,  apart  from  comic  passages  and  under- 
plot, is  chiefly  that  elaboration  of  minor  characters 
and  of  subtle  phrase  which  careful  finish  would  supply, 
and  which  a  sketch  would  probably  lack. 

To  say  that  Macbeth  lacks  anything,  however,  seems 
stupid;  it  lacks  nothing  essential;  in  total  effect  no 
play  could  be  more  definitely  complete.  Until  one 
count  the  lines,  indeed,  it  is  hard  to  realize  how  few 
the  strokes  are  by  which  this  effect  is  produced. 
Elaboration  could  add  nothing  but  detail  and  occa- 
sional relief. 

In  certain  moods,  one  may  fairly  feel  that  Macbeth 
needs  relief.  Its  temper  is  certainly  monotonous,  with 
a  terrible  monotony  of  despair.  Macbeth  himself  is 
a  wonderful  study  of  fatc-riddcn,  irresponsible,  yet 
damning  crime.  Meaningless  in  one  aspect  such  a 
figure'  seems ;  yet  its  appalling,  unmeaning  mystery 
is  everlastingly  true.  This  view  of  human  nature  is 
again  like  that  formulated  by  Calvinism.^  Forced  to 
sin  by  an  incarnate  power  beyond  himself,  man,  eter- 
nally unregenerate,  is  nevertheless  held  to  account  for 
every  act  of  a  will  perverted  by  the  sin  and  the  curse 
of  ancestral  humanity.  He  is  the  sport  of  external 
powers;  and  so  far  as  these  powers  deal  with  him 
they  are  all  evil,  malicious,  wreaking  ill  without  end. 
Life,  then,  is  a  horrible  mystery  ;  it  is  a  ''  fitful  fever,"  ^ 
after  which  ])crhai)s  the  chosen  few  may  slee}>  well  ;  it 

1  See  pp.  269,  273.  Mil.  ii.  23. 

20 


306  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

is  "  a  tale  told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury,  signi- 
fying nothing."  ^  Consciousness,  indeed,  is  a  delirium, 
a  raving  imbecility ;  yet  when  the  end  comes  he  who 
first  cries  '••  Hold,  enough  ! "  ^  jg  damned  for  the  deeds 
of  his  delirious  raving.  The  hackneyed  rhyme  of 
Macbeth's  last  speech  makes  us  forget,  for  an  instant, 
the  full  horror  of  its  triumphantly  Calvinistic  mean- 
ing. As  we  ponder,  the  horror  grows ;  there  are 
moods  in  which  we  cry  out  a  protest. 

In  other  moods,  more  subtly  aesthetic,  we  may  find 
in  Macbeth  as  it  stands  all  the  relief  we  need.  Its 
amazing  precision  of  style  is  so  stimulating  that  one 
may  constantly  delight  in  the  lines,  quite  apart  from 
their  significance.^  In  King  Lear,  as  we  saw,  a  tre- 
mendous access  of  thought  deprives  the  style  of  sim- 
plicity. In  Macbeth  the  superficial  simplicity  of  style 
is  remarkable ;  one  is  rarely  puzzled  by  overpacked 
meaning.  Somehow,  though,  for  all  its  superhuman 
power,  the  style  of  Macbeth  has  not  the  final  quality 
which  marks  the  difference  between  a  masterly  sketch 
and  a  finished  work  of  art.     Yet  no  one  would  alter  it. 

Quite  apart  from  style,  too,  the  ultimate  truth  to 
life  of  both  characters  and  situations  throughout  gives 
one  a  pleasure  which  goes  far  to  obviate  the  horror 
of  the  motive.  This  truth  to  life  is  nowhere  more 
remarkable  than  in  the  supernatural  passages.  Fan- 
tastically weird  as  these  seem,  they  actually  fall  in 
with  some  of  the  results  approached  by  modern  inves- 

1  V.  V.  26.  2  V.  viii.  34. 

*  A  random  example  will  illustrate  this:  e.  g.  II.  ii.  9-21. 


MACBETH  307 

tigators  who  are  scientifically  observing  occult  phe- 
nomena. The  Witches  stand  for  such  introducers  to 
the  hidden  realms  as  in  our  unromantic  world  are 
called  mediums.  Macbeth's  fancy  once  enthralled  by 
these,  he  becomes  something  of  a  medium  liimself  : 
he  sees  a  phantom  dagger,  he  hears  warning  voices,  he 
,  is  visited  by  the  spectre  of  Banquo,  he  witnesses  the 
mysteries  of  the  Witches'  cavern.  Meanwhile,  from 
beginning  to  end,  he  is  undergoing  that  subtle,  intan- 
gible, inevitable  process  of  intellectual  and  moral  deg- 
radation wliich  is  bound  to  ruin  whoever,  without 
holiest  motive,  ventures  into  occult  mysteries.^  The 
truth  of  these  supernatural  scenes,  indeed,  seems  to 
indicate  that  Shakspere's  knowledge  of  occult  phe- 
nomena was  growing.  In  Richard  HI.,  his  ghosts 
were  mere  nursery  goblins  ;  in  Julius  Ccesar,  the  spirit 
of  the  murdered  Caesar  had  become  a  sort  of  incarnate 
fate ;  in  Hamlet,  the  ghost  was  the  individual  disem- 
bodied spirit  of  tradition ;  in  Macbeth,  the  dagger,  the 
weird  voices,  and  the  ghastly  shape  of  Banquo  are  such 
visions,  or  delusions,  as  throughout  human  history 
constantly  occur  to  unhappy  men. 

In  connection  with  tliis  matter,  a  note  by  Mr. 
Greene  is  suggestive  :  — 

"Semi-insanity  begins  to  seem  almost  subjective  in 
Shakspere,  especially  in  this  case  where  it  takes  an  aspect 
not  uncommon  in  literary  men.  The  beings  whom  they 
create   first  begin    to   act    independently   of    the   writer's 

^  Cf.  a  paper  on  the  Salem  Witches,  in  SteUigeri  and  Other  Essays 
Concerning  America. 


308  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

volition,  then  to  appear  as  hallucinations  unsummoned. 
Very  likely  this  happened  to  Shakspere  not  merel}^  when 
he  dreamt,  but  when  he  was  awake;  and  this  is  just  what 
happens  to  Macbeth:  First  he  sees  a  dagger  which  he 
recognizes  as  unreal  but  cannot  dismiss.  Then  a  voice 
says  to  him  *  Sleep  no  more.'  Finally  he  thinks  the 
ghost  real  whom  only  he  sees.  Perhaps  this  is  complete 
insanity;  but  probably  Shakspere  did  not  think  so." 

The  means  by  which  the  characters  of  Macbeth 
and  his  Lady  are  expressed,  indeed,  would  suggest 
doubt  as  to  whether  Shakspere  could  have  deliberately 
thought  of  them  at  all,  except  as  concepts  which  he 
was  bound  to  embody  in  phrase.  The  amazing  com- 
pactness of  their  lines  surprises  whoever  counts  the 
words.  In  the  first  act,  where  both  of  these  great 
psychological  conceptions  are  thoroughly  set  forth, 
Lady  Macbeth  has  fourteen  speeches,  comprising  864 
words,  and  Macbeth  has  twenty-six  speeches,  compris- 
ing 878  words.  In  all,  the  speeches  of  Lady  Macbeth 
number  less  than  60,  many  of  them  very  short ;  and 
those  of  Macbeth,  some  of  them  equally  short,  num- 
ber less  than  150.  The  art  with  which  in  so  little 
space  Shakspere  has  created  and  defined  two  of  the 
most  vital  characters  of  all  literature  is  a  matter  for 
constant  admiration. 

So  constant  is  one's  admiration  for  Macbeth  that 
one  is  apt  to  forget  the  archaism  which  really  pervades 
all  the  work  of  Shakspere.  In  this  case.  Dr.  Forman's 
note  of  the  play  should  bring  us  to  ourselves.  On 
April  20, 1610,  "  there  was  to  be  observed,"  he  writes, 


MACBETH  309 

"how  Macbeth  and  Banquo,  two  noblemen  of  Scot- 
land, riding  throujh  a  wood,  there  stood  before  them 
three  women,  etc."  The  fact  that  these  personages 
were  riding  through  a  wood  was  presented  to  the  eyes 
of  Dr.  Forman  by  the  stage  arrangements  of  the  Globe 
Theatre.  The  methods  by  which  it  was  probably 
presented  would  now  seem  incredible.  Instead  of  a 
painted  scene  illuminated  by  green  foot-lights,  the 
wood  probably  consisted  either  of  one  or  two  Christ- 
mas trees,  lugged  in  by  attendants,  or  else  of  a  placard 
posted  at  the  back  of  the  stage,  at  the  sides  of  which 
Dr.  Forman  and  his  friends  would  sit,  chatting  and 
eating  fruit,  in  plain  sight  of  the  audience.  As  to  the 
riding,  Macbeth  and  Banquo  probably  made  their 
first  entry  with  wicker-work  hobby-horses  about  their 
waists,  with  false  human  legs,  of  half  the  natural 
length,  dangling  from  the  saddles,  and  with  sweeping 
skirts  to  hide  the  actors'  feet.  Monstrous  as  such  a 
proceeding  seems,  it  might  still  occur  in  serious  trag- 
edy on  the  Chinese  stage  ;  and  the  Chinese  stage  is 
very  like  the  Elizabethan.  A  fact  in  Macbeth  which 
slightly  tends  to  prove  this  conjecture  is  that  just 
before  Banquo  is  killed  he  dismisses  his  horses  behind 
the  scenes,'  and  enters  on  foot.  To  die  with  a  hobby- 
horse about  one's  waist  would  have  been  too  much  for 
even  Elizabethan  conventions. 

The  peculiar  effect  of  Macbeth,  then,  we  have  traced 
to  thp  facts  that  while  its  stage  conventions  are  ulti- 
mately) archaic  and  its  general  treatment  is  remarkably 

1  III.  iii.  8-14. 


olO  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

sketchy,  its  conception  and  style  are  profoundly  true 
to  human  nature.  In  a  subtle  way,  too,  Macbeth^  as 
one  grows  to  know  it,  impresses  one  like  Othello  as 
strongly  objective.  The  moods  which  underlie  Hamlet 
and  King  Lear  seem  moods  of  which  the  poet  might 
sometimes  have  been  conscious  as  his  own.  The 
moods  of  Othello  and  Macbeth  seem  rather  moods 
which  the  poet,  if  conscious  of  them  at  all,  would 
probably  have  thought  that  he  was  inventing  by  sheer 
force  of  sympathetic  imagination. 

As  we  have  seen  before,  however,  even  work  which 
is  not  primarily  self-revealing  can  never  express  any- 
thing but  what  in  some  form  or  other  its  maker  has 
known.^  Macbeth^  accordingly,  once  more  displays 
the  traits  which  pervade  the  other  tragedies.  To  be- 
gin with,  as  Mr.  Greene's  note  suggested,  it  shows 
fresh  traces  of  an  overwrought  state  of  mind.  The 
restless  activity  of  Hamlet,  the  concentration  of  lago, 
the  passion  of  Othello,  the  raving  of  Lear,  the  ghost- 
seeing  of  Macbeth,  the  sleep-walking  of  Lady  Macbeth, 
all  show  the  same  morbid  tendency.  It  is  not  for  a 
moment  to  be  guessed  that  Shakspere  was  insane ; 
his  constant  judgment,  his  artistic  sanity  were  enough 
to  preserve  him  from  any  such  fate.  Beyond  reason- 
able doubt,  however,  liis  mind  was  at  this  period 
abnormally  active  ;  and,  perhaps  in  consequence,  his 
imagination  centred  on  morbid  mental  conditions. 
Again,  in  Macbeth^  woman  plays  the  devil's  part.  Com- 
pare the  second  series  of  the  Sonnets^  the  relation  of 

1  See  p.  229. 


MACBETH  311 

the  Queen  and  Ophelia  in  Hamlet  to  the  men  whom 
they  half-innocently  destroy,  the  wantonness  of  Cres- 
sida,  the  effect  on  Othello  of  the  self-destructive  gentle- 
ness of  Desdemona,  the  cruelty  and  lust  of  Goneril  and 
Regan,  the  active  mischief  of  the  Witches  and  of  Lady 
Macbeth.  All  alike  reveal  a  mind  keenly  alive  to 
.  the  manifold  harm,  wittingly  or  unwittingly,  done  by 
women.  Finally,  in  Macbeth^  the  mood  which  we 
nave  called  Calvinistic  expresses,  with  unprecedented 
abandonment  to  artistic  passion,  an  ultimately  ironical 
view  of  human  life.  At  least  to  human  beings,  life  is 
an  unrelieved  misery  —  a  tale  told  by  an  idiot,  full  of 
sound  and  fury,  signifying  nothing.  Taken  for  all 
in  all,  Macbeth  reveals  deeper  knowledge  of  spiritual 
misery  than  we  have  fathomed  before. 

To  appreciate  this,  we  may  best  glance  back  at  the 
four  serious  tragedies  which  have  preceded.  In  each 
there  are  a  few  lines  broadly  suggestive  of  the  tem- 
per which  pervades  it.  Take  Juliet's  last  speech  to 
her  nurse  :  ^  — 

"  Farewell !     God  knows  when  we  shall  meet  again ; " 

or  Romeo's  final  words  :  ^  — 

"  Here  's  to  my  love  !     0  true  apothecary ! 
Thy  drugs  are  quick.     Thus,  with  a  kiss  I  die." 

Somehow  these  lines  recall  the  sentimental  pathos  of 
Romeo  and  Juliet^  that  romantic  poem  which  beside 
the  great  tragedies  seems  hardly  tragic  at  all. 

1  Romeo  and  Juliet,  IV.  iii.  14.  2  ibid.  V.  ill    1  lit 


312  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

Take  Hamlet's  dying  speech  to  Horatio :  *  — 

"  If  thou  didst  ever  hold  me  in  thine  heart, 
Absent  thee  from  felicity  awhile, 
And  in  this  harsh  world  draw  thy  breath  in  pain^ 
To  tell  my  story  ; " 

and  Horatio's  farewell  words  :  ^  — 

"  Now  cracks  a  noble  heart.     Good-night,  sweet  prince, 
And  flights  of  angels  sing  thee  to  thy  rest !" 

These  words  somehow  imply  the  mood  of  one  who 
should  dream  of  death  as  after  all  an  end  to  the 
bewilderment  of  human  existence. 

Take  Othello's  savagely  conscious  death-cry  :  ^  — 

"  Set  you  down  this ; 
And  say  besides,  that  in  Aleppo  once, 
Where  a  malignant  and  a  turban'd  Turk 
Beat  a  Venetian  and  traduced  the  state, 
I  took  by  the  throat  the  circumcised  dog, 
And  smote  him,  thus  !  " 

Somehow  death  comes  as  a  splendid  climax  of  passion. 
In  Othello^  as  in  Hamlet^  life  is  a  mystery ;  death  is  a 
mystery,  too ;  but  there  maybe  dreams  of  compensation. 
Then  take  Kent's  speech  of  farewell  to  the  dying 
Lear : ^  — 

"  Vex  not  his  ghost :     0,  let  him  pass  !  he  hates  him 
That  would  ujion  the  rack  of  this  tough  world 
Stretch  him  out  longer." 

Life  here  is  unmixed  agony.  Only  in  death  can  there 
be  even  a  dream  of  peace. 

1  Hamlet,  V.  ii.  357.  2  j^\^_  370. 

8  Othello,  V.  ii.  351.  *  King  Lear,  V.  iii.  313. 


ANTONY   AND   CLEOPATRA  313 

Theu  take  the  words  we  have  already  cited  from 

Macbeth :  — 

"  Duncan  is  in  his  grave  ; 
After  life's  fitful  fever  he  sleeps  well."* 

"  Life's  but  a  walking  shadow,  a  poor  player 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage 
And  then  is  heard  no  more  :  it  is  a  tale 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury, 
Signifying  nothing."  ^ 

Finally,  take  Macbeth's  last  shout :  ^  — 

"  Lay  on,  Macduff, 
And  damn'd  be  he  that  first  cries  '  Hold,  enough!'  " 

One  feels  in  Macbeth  the  climax  of  all,  —  a  knowledge 
of  the  last  word  of  soul-sick  despair. 


X.    Antony  and  Cleopatra. 

[Antony  and  Cleopatra  was  entered  in  the  Stationers'  Register  on 
May  20th,  1608.     It  was  not  published  until  the  folio  of  1623. 
Its  source  is  North's  Plutarch. 
On  internal  evidence,  it  is  generally  assigned  conjecturally  to  1 607. J 

Composed  throughout  according  to  the  conven- 
tions of  chronicle-history,  Antony  and  Cleopatra  is  at 
first  sight  bewildering.  Whoever  would  a})preciate  it 
must  deliberately  revive  the  mood  of  an  Elizabethan 
public,  abandon  himself  to  this  mood,  accept  as  normal 
what  is  really  archaic.     The  effort  is  worth  all  the 

1  III,  ii,  22.  2  V.  V.  24,  •  Y.  vii,  33, 


314  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

pains  it  may  cost ;  for  while  very  close  to  its  narra^ 
tive  source,  Antony  and  Cleopatra  displays  at  once 
masterly  discretion  in  the  selection  of  dramatic  mate- 
rial, masterly  power  of  creating  both  character  and 
atmosphere,  and  unsurpassed  mastery  of  language. 
The  old  conventions  once  accepted,  indeed,  the  play 
may  without  extravagance  be  called  the  masterpiece 
of  the  kind  of  literature  which  began  with  Henry  IKf 
—  of  historical  fiction. 

To  appreciate  its  full  power,  we  may  best  compare 
passages  from  it  with  other  treatments  of  the  same 
or  similar  subjects.  As  a  matter  of  mere  description, 
for  example,  take  the  account  in  North's  Plutarch  of 
how  Antony  first  sees  Cleopatra,  and  compare  with  it 
the  version  of  the  story  in  Dryden's  All  for  Love,  and 
finally  Shakspere's. 

Here  is  North's  version  :  ^  — 

''  She  disdained  to  set  forward  otherwise,  but  to  take  her 
barge  in  the  river  of  Cydnus;  the  poop  whereof  was  of  gold, 
the  sails  of  purple,  and  the  oars  of  silver,  which  kept 
stroke  in  rowing  after  the  sound  of  the  music  of  flutes, 
howboys,  cithernes,  viols,  and  such  other  instruments  as 
they  played  upon  in  the  barge.  And  now  for  the  person 
of  her  self,  she  was  laid  under  a  pavilion  of  cloth  of  gold  of 
tissue,  apparelled  and  attired  like  the  goddess  Venus,  com- 
monly drawn  in  picture :  and  hard  b}^  her,  on  either  hand 
of  her,  pretty  fair  boys  apparelled  as  painters  do  set  forth 
god  Cupid,  with  little  fans  in  their  hands,  with  the  which 
they  fanned  wind  upon  her.  Her  ladies  and  gentlewomen 
also,  the  fairest  of  them,  were  apparelled  like  the  nymphs 

1  Rolfe  :  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  151. 


ANTONY   AND  CLEOPATRA  315 

Nereids  (which  are  the  mermaids  of  the  waters)  and  like 
the  Graces;  some  steering  the  helm,  others  tending  the 
tackle  and  ropes  of  the  barge,  out  of  the  which  there  came 
a  wonderful  passing  sweet  savour  of  perfumes,  that  per- 
fumed the  wharf's  side,  pestered  with  innumerable  multi- 
tudes of  people." 

Dryden's  All  for  Love,  published  in  1678,  as  a 
matter  of  avowed  rivalry  with  Sliakspere,  puts  this 
passage  into  the  mouth  of  Antony,  who  rehearses  it 
to  Dolabella,!  as  follows  :  — 

"  Her  galley  down  the  silver  Cydnos  rowed, 
The  tackling  silk,  the  streamers  waved  with  gold; 
The  gentle  winds  were  lodged  in  purple  sails  : 
Her  nymphs,  like  Nereids,  round  her  couch  were  placed  ; 
Where  she,  another  sea-born  Venus,  lay. 

.         .         . 
She  lay,  and  leant  her  cheek  upon  her  hand  ; 
And  cast  a  look  so  languishingly  sweet, 
As  if,  secure  of  all  beholders'  hearts. 
Neglecting,  she  could  take  them  :  boys,  like  Cupids, 
Stood  fanning,  with  their  painted  wings,  the  winds 
That  played  about  her  face  :  but  if  she  smiled, 
A  darting  glory  seemed  to  blaze  abroad, 
That  men's  desiring  eyes  were  never  wearied. 
But  hung  upon  the  object  :  to  soft  flutes 
The  silver  oars  kept  time  ;  and  while  they  played, 
The  hearing  gave  new  pleasure  tn  the  sight  ; 
And  both  to  thought.     'T  was  heaven  or  somewhat  more ; 
For  she  so  charmed  all  hearts,  that  gazing  crowds 
Stood  panting  on  the  shore,  and  wanted  breath 
To  give  their  welcome  voice." 

Compare  with  these  the  version  which  Shakspere 
puts  into  the  mouth  of  cool,  shrewd  Enobarbus :  ^  — 

1  III.  i.  2  II.  ii,  196-223. 


316  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

The  barge  she  sat  in,  like  a  burnish'd  throne, 

Burned  on  the  water  :  the  poop  was  beaten  gold  ; 

Purple  the  sails,  and  so  perfumed  that 

The  winds  were  love-sick  with  them;  the  oars  were  silver, 

Which  to  the  tune  of  flutes  kept  stroke,  and  made 

The  water  which  they  beat  to  follow  faster, 

As  amorous  of  their  strokes.     For  her  own  person, 

It  beggar'd  all  description  :  she  did  lie 

In  her  pavilion  —  cloth-of-gold  of  tissue — 

O'erpicturing  that  Venus  where  we  see 

The  fancy  outwork  nature  :  on  each  side  her 

Stood  pretty  dimpled  boys,  like  smiling  Cupids, 

With  divers-coloured  fans,  whose  wind  did  seem 

To  glow  the  delicate  cheeks  which  they  did  cool, 

And  what  they  undid  did 

Her  gentlewomen,  like  the  Nereides, 
So  many  mermaids,  tended  her  i'  the  eyes, 
And  made  their  bends  adorniiigs  :  at  the  helm 
A  seeming  mermaid  steers  :  the  silken  tackle 
Swell  with  the  touches  of  those  flower-soft  hands 
That  yarely  frame  the  office.     From  the  barge 
A  strange  invisible  perfume  hits  the  sense 
Of  the  adjacent  wharfs.     The  city  cast 
Her  people  out  upon  her;  and  Antony, 
Enthron'd  i'  the  market-place,  did  sit  alone, 
Whistling  to  the  air;  which,  but  for  vacancy, 
Had  gone  to  gaze  on  Cleopatra  too. 
And  made  a  gap  in  nature." 

At  once  far  closer  to  the  original  than  Dryden,  and 
less  ingeniously  laborious  in  his  variations,  Shakspere 
is  at  the  same  time  more  poetic  and  more  plausible. 

Now  for  the  character  of  Cleopatra.  In  All  for 
Lovsy  Dryden  brings  her  face  to  face  with  Octavia,^ 
and  here  is  what  passes:  — 

1  III.  i. 


ANTONY   AND   CLEOPATRA  317 

"  Octav.    I  Tieed  not  ask  if  you  are  Cleopatra; 
Your  haughty  carriage  — 

Cleo.  Shows  I  am  a  queen: 

Nor  need  I  ask  you,  who  you  are. 

Octav.  A  Roman; 

A  name  that  makes  and  can  unmake  a  queen. 

Cleo.  Your  lord,  the  man  who  serves  me,  is  a  Roman. 

Octav.    He  was  a  Roman,  till  he  lost  that  name, 
To  be  a  slave  in  Egypt;  but  I  come 
To  free  him  thence. 

Cleo.  Peace,  peace,  my  lover's  Juno. 

When  he  grew  weary  of  that  household  clog. 
He  chose  my  easier  bonds." 

Admirably  theatrical  though  that  dialogue  be,  com- 
pare it  with  the  passage  from  Shakspere,  where  Cleo- 
patra believes  that  Antony  has  received  a  stirring 
message  from  his  wife  :  ^ 

"  Cleo.  I  am  sick  and  sullen. 

Ant.    I  am  sorry  to  give  breathing  to  my  purpose,  — 

Cleo.    Help  me  away,  dear  Charmian;  I  shall  fall: 
It  cannot  be  thus  long,  the  sides  of  nature 
Will  not  sustain  it. 

Ant.  Now,  my  dearest  queen, — 

Cleo.    Pray  you,  stand  farther  from  me. 

Ant.  What's  the  matter  ? 

Cleo.   I  know,  by  that  same  eye,  there 's  some  good  news. 
What  says  the  married  woman  ? "  etc. 

Just  as  theatrical,  and  far  more  colloquial,  Shak- 
spere's  scene  seems  comparatively  like  a  fragment  of 
real  life.  So  any  treatment  of  Cleopatra  by  Shak- 
spere seems  when  we  put  it  beside  any  of  Corneille's, 
—  as,  for  example,  when  she  declares  to  Caesar:'' 

»  I.  iii.  13.  2  Corueillc,  Pompe'e,  IV.  iii. 


318  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

"  Je  scais  ce  que  je  dois  au  souverain  bonheur 
Dont  me  comble  et  m'accable  un  tel  exces  d'honneur. 
Je  ne  vous  tiendray  plus  mes  passions  secrettes  ; 
Je  scais  ce  que  je  suis,  je  scais  ce  que  vous  etes; 
Vous  daignastes  m'aimer  des  mes  plus  jeunes  ans; 
Le  sceptre  que  je  porte  est  un  de  vos  presens; 
Vous  m'avez  par  deux  fois  rendu  le  diademe: 
J'avoue  apres  cela,  Seigneur,  que  je  vous  aime,"  etc. 

John  Fletcher,  too,  treated  the  loves  of  Cleopatra 
and  Julius  Caesar ;  and  here  is  how  he  made  her 
coquet  with  the  great  Roman :  ^ 

"  Cleo.  (giving  a  jeioel) .     Take  this, 
And  carry  it  to  that  lordly  Caesar  sent  thee  ; 
There's  a  new  love,  a  handsome  one,  a  rich  one, 
One  that  will  hug  his  mind:  bid  him  make  love  to  it; 
Tell  the  ambitious  broker,  this  will  suffer  — 

Apol.    He  enters. 

Enter  C^sar. 

Cleo.  How! 

Gees.  I  do  not  use  to  wait,  lady; 

Where  I  am,  all  the  doors  are  free  and  open. 

Cleo,      I  guess  so  by  your  rudeness;  " 

And  so  on. 

The  very  end  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  however,  is 
perhaps  more  typical  than  any  other  passage.  Here 
is  North's  version  of  Cleopatra's  death  :  ^  — 

"  When  they  had  opened  the  doors,  they  found  Cleo- 
patra stark-dead,  laid  upon  a  bed  of  gold,  attired  and 
arrayed  in  her  royal  robes,  and  one  of  her  two  women, 
which  was  called  Iras,  dead  at  her  feet:  and  the  other 
woman  (called  Charmion)  half  dead,  and  trembling,  trim- 
ming the  diadem  which  Cleopatra  wore  upon  her  head. 
1  The  False  One,  IV.  ii.  2  -RqM^,  167. 


ANTONY   AND  CLEOPATRA  319 

Oue  of  the  soldiers  seeing  her,  angrily  said  unto  her:  'Is 
that  well  done,  Charmion  ?  '  'Very  well,'  she  said  again, 
'and  meet  for  a  princess  descended  from  the  race  of  so 
many  noble  kings:  '  she  said  no  more,  but  fell  down  dead 
hard  by  the  bed." 

In  All  for  Love,  Dryden  makes  Cleopatra  greet  the 

asp  thus  : 

"  Welcome,  thou  kind  deceiver ! 
Thou  best  of  thieves  ;  who  with  an  easy  key 
Dost  open  life,  and,  unperceived  by  us, 
Even  steal  us  from  ourselves,"  and  so  on. 

The  guard  at  that  moment  clamor  for  admission  ; 
whereupon,  in  the  presence  of  both  Iras  and  Char- 
mian,  Cleopatra  thus  applies  the  asp  : 

"  Haste,  bare  my  arm,  and  rouse  the  serpent's  fury. 
Coward  flesh, 

Woultlst  thou  conspire  with  Cajsar  to  betray  me 
As  thou  wert  none  of  mine  ?     I  '11  force  thee  to  it, 
And  not  be  sent  by  him. 
But  bring  myself,  my  soul,  to  Antony. 
Take  hence;  the  work  is  done." 

The  women  then  apply  asps  to  themselves.  Iras  in- 
stantly dies.     The  guard  break  in,  and  one  exclaims : 

"  'T  was  what  I  feared,  — 
Charmion,  is  this  well  done  1 

Char.  Yes,  't  is  well  done,  and  like  a  queen,  the  last 
Of  her  great  race:  I  follow  her.  [Dies.]" 

In  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  Iras  dies  before  Cleo- 
patra applies  the  asp.  Then  come  these  marvellous 
speeches:^ 

1  V.  ii.  303  seq. 


320  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

"  Cleo.  This  proves  me  base  ; 

If  she  first  meet  the  curled  Antony, 
He  Ml  make  demand  of  her,  and  spend  that  kiss 
Which  is  my  heaven  to  have.      Come,  thou  mortal  wretch, 
With  thy  sharp  teeth  this  knot  intrinsicate 
Of  life  at  once  untie:  poor  venomous  fool. 
Be  angry,  and  dispatch.     0,  couldst  thou  speak, 
That  I  might  hear  thee  call  great  Caesar  ass 
Unpolicied  ! 

Char.  O  eastern  star  1 

Cleo.  Peace,  peace ! 

Dost  thou  not  see  my  baby  at  my  breast, 
That  sucks  the  nurse  asleep  ?  " 

Finally,  when  the  queen  is  dead,  and  the  guard  break 
in,  a  soldier  speaks :  — 

"  What  work  is  here  I     Charmian,  is  this  well  done  ? 
Char.     It  is  well  done,  and  fitting  for  a  princess 
Descended  of  so  many  royal  kings. 
Ah,  soldier  I  [Dies.]  " 

This  prolonged  quotation  was  probably  the  shortest 
as  well  as  the  most  definite  means  of  showing  how, 
amid  a  considerable  group  of  skilful  historical  fictions, 
Shakspere's  Antony  and  Cleopatra  emerges  as  a  mas- 
terpiece of  history.  While  the  other  treatments  of 
Cleopatra  arc  theatrically  effective,  Shakspere's  not 
only  creates  a  miraculously  human  woman,  but  actu- 
ally revives  the  death  throes  of  the  ancient  world. 
Of  course  Antony  and  Cleopatra  is  a  great  poem. 
For  all  its  light  and  weak  endings,  all  the  grow- 
ing freedom  of  style  which  marks  the  beginning  of 
metrical  decay,  its  phrasing  throughout  is  far  above 


ANTONY   AND   CLEOPATRA  321 

the  indignity  of  actual  life.  No  Imman  being,  for  ex- 
ample, would  ever  have  uttered  many  of  the  phrases 
we  have  considered  already ;  nor  yet  such  words  as 
the  more  famous  ones  with  which  the  play  teems : 

*'  Age  cannot  wither  her,  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety; " ' 

"  She  looks  like  sleep, 
As  she  would  catch  another  Antony 
In  her  strong  toil  of  grace ;  "  ' 

and  more.  All  its  veracity  of  detail  does  not  make 
Antony  and  Cleopatra  realistic  in  style.  The  differ- 
ence between  this  great  poem,  however,  and  the  most 
literally  phrased  of  modern  histories  is  only  a  differ- 
ence of  method.  Essentially  each  brings  us  face  to 
face  with  an  actual  historic  past ;  each  leaves  us  in  a 
mood  which  we  might  have  felt,  had  we  known  that 
past  in  the  flesh. 

In  the  flesh  whoever  knew  it  must  have  known  it 
best.  The  life  here  brought  back  from  the  dust  was 
nowise  spiritual.  The  world  which  Antony  and  Cleo- 
patra revives  was  dying.  What  had  made  Rome 
Roman,  Greece  Greek,  Egypt  Egyptian,  was  passing. 
Ruin  was  everywhere  impending,  not  instant,  but  none 
the  less  fatal.  The  old  ideals  were  gone;  nor  was 
there  yet  any  gleam  of  the  new  ideals  to  come.  This 
falling  world,  though,  once  great  and  noble,  retained 
even  in  its  fall  the  aspect  of  its  past  grandeur ;  and 
like  all  great  moments  of  decadence  it  afforded  to 
whoever  would  plunge  into  its  vortex  such  splendor  of 

1  II.  ii.  240.  «  V.  u.  349. 

21 


322  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

sensuous,  earthly  delight  that  in  certain  moods  one 
still  envies  the  animal  ecstasies  of  those  who  fell,  dis- 
daining all  nobler  sense.  Nor  is  such  sympathy  with 
the  intoxication  of  evil  a  thing  in  which  even  the 
purest  of  heart  need  feel  shame.  No  one  can  know 
the  real  grandeur  of  moral  conquest  who  does  not  also 
realize  the  alluring  delights  of  moral  degradation  over 
which  such  conquest  must  triumph. 

We  wander  from  Shakespere,  however.  Such  mat- 
ters as  we  have  just  touched  on  are  not  specifically  set 
forth  in  Antony  and  Cleopatra.  What  Shakspere  there 
does,  as  we  have  seen,  is  simply  to  present  the  facts  of 
Plutarch's  narrative  in  a  grandly  objective  way.  In 
these  facts  themselves  were  inherent  all  this  sympa- 
thetic knowledge  of  fleshly  delight,  and  all  these 
splendid  gleams  of  what  made  noble  classic  antiquity. 
In  the  facts,  too,  was  inherent  the  great  solemnity 
of  world  ruin.  All  this  the  very  facts  make  us 
feel.  Nowhere  in  literature  is  the  atmosphere  of 
an  historic  past  more  marvellously  or  more  faithfully 
revived. 

In  this  atmosphere  live  men  and  women  whose  in- 
dividuality, like  that  of  men  and  women  in  the  flesh, 
while  complete,  is  not  instantly  salient.  What  one 
first  feels  in  Antony  and  Cleopatra  is  the  world- 
movement  which  whirls  all  these  people  on,  the  local 
and  temporal  atmosphere  which  enshrouds  them.  By 
and  by,  however,  as  one  grows  to  know  them  better, 
each  personage  begins  to  stand  out  as  distinct  as  any 
living   individual  whom  one  grows  really  to  know. 


ANTONY   AND  CLEOPATRA  323 

Take,  for  example,  the  scene  on  Pompey's  galley.^     In 
Plutarch  there  is  the  merest  hint  for  this  scene :  ^ 

*'  So  he  cast  anchors  enow  into  the  sea,  to  make  his  galley 
fast,  from  the  head  of  Mount  !^[isena:  and  there  he  wel- 
comed them,  and  made  them  great  cheer.  Now  in  the 
midst  of  the  feast,  when  they  fell  to  he  merry  with  Anto- 
nius'  love  unto  Cleopatra,  Menas  the  pirate  came  to  Pora- 
pey,  and  whispering  in  his  ear,  said  unto  him  :  *  Shall  I 
cut  the  cables  of  the  anchors,  and  make  thee  lord  not  only 
of  Sicily  and  Sardinia,  but  of  the  whole  empire  of  Rome 
besides  ? '  Pompey,  having  paused  awhile  upon  it,  at 
length  answered  him:  'Thou  shouldest  have  done  it,  and 
never  have  told  it  me  ;  but  now  we  must  content  us  with 
that  we  have  ;  as  for  myself,  I  was  never  taught  to  break 
my  faith,  nor  to  be  counted  a  traitor  !  '  " 

From  this  plain  statement  of  fact  Shakspere  devel- 
oped one  of  the  most  consummately  dramatic  scenes  in 
literature.  The  triple  head  of  imperial  Rome  is  drunk, 
each  in  his  own  way :  Antony  boisterous,  Octavius 
gravely  silent,  Lepidus  silly.  All  are  utterly  in  the 
power  of  an  unscrupulous  enemy  ;  all  are  saved  from 
a  fate  which  might  have  altered  the  course  of  history 
by  the  single  surviving  scruple  of  a  man  who  usually 
had  none.  Then  the  drunken  Lepidus  is  bundled  over 
the  side ;  and  the  empire  is  safe.  This  whole  story  is 
told  in  seventy-five  lines,  which  not  only  set  forth  the 
intensely  dramatic  situation,  but  preserve  meanwhile  a 
constant  sense  of  how  funnv  men  are  when  the  worse 
for  drink.  Every  syllable  of  this  astonishing  scene 
has  a  specific  office. 

1  II.  vii.  2  Kolfe.  154 


324  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

This  scene,  then,  clearly  displays  the  trait  which 
distinguishes  Antony  and  Cleopatra  from  the  plays 
which  precede.  As  we  have  already  seen  again  and 
again,  Shakspere's  power  of  creating  individual  char- 
acter, and  thereby  of  creating  an  atmosphere,  re- 
mains unsurpassed.  The  tremendous  activity  of  mind 
which  has  been  palpable  from  Hamlet  onward  re- 
mains constant,  too ;  every  syllable  is  packed  with 
meaning.  On  the  other  hand,  however,  the  profound 
emotional  impulse  which  has  surged  beneath  the 
great  tragedies  seems  here  to  slacken.  Antony  and 
Cleopatra  has  passion  enough  and  to  spare ;  but  it  is 
passion  presented  in  a  coolly  dramatic,  dispassionate 
way.  The  effect  is  perhaps  of  more  supreme  mastery 
than  any  we  have  met  before.  More  than  before,  how- 
ever, the  sense  that  this  is  mastery  obtrudes  itself. 
What  makes  Antony  and  Cleopatra  so  peculiarly  great, 
indeed,  is  probably  a  slight  relaxation  of  that  intense 
artistic  impulse  which  made  so  great  in  a  different  way 
Hamlet,  and  Othello,  and  King  Lear,  and  Macbeth. 

Creative  power,  however,  even  though  it  lack  a  little 
of  the  spontaneous  intensity  which  one  felt  in  Hamlet, 
in  lago,  in  Lear,  in  Macbeth,  is  as  great  as  ever.  To 
pass  from  the  lesser  characters,  each  of  whom  is 
thoroughly  individual,  there  are  in  all  literature  no 
two  personages  more  consummately  alive  than  Antony 
and  Cleopatra  themselves.  So  living  do  they  seem, 
indeed,  that  to  analyze  them  is  as  grave  a  task  as  to 
analyze  real  human  beings.  Each  is  not  only  true  to 
fact,  but  more.     Antony  is  not  only  the  Antony,  and 


ANTONY   AND  CLP:0PATRA  325 

Cleopatra  the  Cleopatra  of  recorded  history ;  each 
broadly  typifies  eternal  phases  of  huiiian  nature. 
Antony  is  the  lasting  type  of  that  profound  infatua- 
tion which  is  the  most  insidious  snare  of  passionate 
middle-life ;  Cleopatra  is  the  supreme  type  of  all  that 
in  womanhood  is  fatal. 

In  this  view  of  woman  as  fatal  to  man,  whoever  has 
pursued  our  course  of  study  must  find  the  culmination 
of  a  series  of  moods  concerning  sexual  relations,  for 
whose  origin  we  must  look  far  back.  From  the  Rosa- 
line oi  Love's  Labour's  iosi  through  Portia  to  Bea- 
trice, and  Rosalind,  and  Viola,  we  had  a  series  of 
figures  which  expressed  the  mood  of  innocent,  adoring 
fascination.  In  All 's  Well  that  Ends  IFell,  in  JIamlet, 
in  Measure  for  Measure,  we  had  expressions,  in  vary- 
ing terms,  of  the  troubles  which  spring  from  such  be- 
ginnings, when  without  relaxing  its  hold  fascination  is 
invaded  by  doubt.  In  Troilus  and  Cressida  and  in 
Othello  we  had  doubt  more  definitely  and  more  passion- 
ately stated,  with  all  its  bewildering  uncertainty.  In 
King  Lear  we  had  cruelty  incarnate  in  woman  ;  in 
Macbeth  woman  embodied  all  the  evil  influences  and 
the  evil  counsel  which  may  ruin  man.  Here  in  Cleo- 
patra we  have  the  whole  story  summed  up,  in  a  mas- 
terly psychologic  recapitulation,  which  reminds  one  of 
the  masterly  dramatic  recapitulation  so  characteristic 
of  Shakspere,  and  most  evident  in  Ttoelfih  Night.  It 
is  idle  to  deny,  too,  that  the  moods  thus  recapitulated 
are  very  like  what  we  may  beiieve  to  underlie  the 
second  series  of  Sonnets. 


326  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

The  unanswerable  question  which  that  last  sugges- 
tion raises,  however,  —  as  to  whether  Beatrice  and 
Cleopatra  be  different  portraits  of  the  same  living 
woman  who  inspired  the  Sonnets,  —  is  impertinent. 
The  Shakspere  with  whom  we  may  legitimately  deal 
is  not  the  man,  who  has  left  no  record  of  his  actual 
life,  but  the  artist,  who  has  left  the  fullest  record  of 
his  emotional  experience.  To  search  for  the  actual 
man  is  at  once  unbecoming  and  futile.  What  we  can 
fairly  assert  of  this  great  Antony  and  Cleopatra  is 
enough  for  our  purpose  :  If  we  once  accept  the  con- 
ventions of  chronicle-history,  this  play  reveals  an  artist, 
objective  in  temper  and  consummate  master  of  his  art, 
who  has  told  a  historic  story  with  supreme  artistic 
truth ;  and  the  story,  impregnated  at  once  with  the 
sense  of  irony  which  we  have  learned  to  know  and  with 
a  more  profound  sense  than  ever  of  the  evil  which  wo- 
man may  wreak,  is  a  story  which  supremely,  dispas- 
sionately expresses  the  tragedy  of  world-decadence. 

XL      CORIOLANUS. 

[Coriolanus  was  first  entered  in  1623  and  published  in  the  folio.  No 
earlier  allusion  to  it  is  known. 

Its  source,  like  that  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  is  North's  Plutarch. 

Verse-tests  ^  place  it  near  Antony  and  Cleopatra.  For  examples  of 
"light"  endings,  see  II.  i.  238,  241,  243,  245 ;  for  "  weak  "  endings,  see 
V.  vi.  75,  76.  The  number  of  weak  endings  in  Coriolanus  is  exceeded 
only  in  Cymbeline.  Shakspere's  verse  is  clearly  breaking  down.  On 
this  ground  chiefly,  common  conjecture  now  assigns  Coriolanus  to 
about  1608.] 

1  See  Dowden's  Primer,  39-44,  and  Mr.  Ingram's  paper  in  the  New 
Shakspere  Society's  Transactions  for  1874,  p.  442. 


CORIOLANUS  327 

Like  Antony  and  Cleopatra  and  Julius  Caisar^ 
Coriolanus  at  first  appears  to  be  a  chronicle-history 
based  on  Phitarch  instead  of  on  Holinshed,  not  Eng- 
lish but  Roman.  Whatever  its  relations  to  Julius 
Ccesar,  however,  it  proves  in  total  effect  very  unlike 
Antony  and  Cleopatra.  That  masterpiece  of  historical 
fiction  impresses  whoever  will  accept  its  conventions 
as  actual  history.  Coriolanus^  on  the  other  hand,  im- 
presses one  neither  as  actual  history  nor  yet  exactly 
as  historical  fiction.  It  seems  rather  a  presentation, 
in  dramatic  form,  of  a  historical  story  the  conception 
of  which  is  affected  throughout  by  a  definite  philo- 
sophical bias. 

This  does  not  mean,  of  course,  that  Coriolanus  any 
more  than  Henry  V.  may  rationally  be  deemed  a 
philosophical  treatise.  Throughout  this  study  we 
cannot  too  often  remind  ourselves  that  Shakspere  was 
an  artist,  —  a  man  who  finding  that  experience,  actual 
or  recorded,  excited  in  him  specific  moods,  gave  his 
conscious  energy  to  the  expression  of  those  moods 
with  little  care  for  their  ultimate  meaning.  What 
moods  mean  is  a  question  for  philosophers  and  critics, 
not  for  artists ;  even  in  Genesis,  the  Creator  does  not 
pronounce  his  work  good  until  it  is  finished.  An 
artist's  moods,  however,  may  be  very  various ;  now 
and  again  their  relation  to  actual  life  and  conduct  may 
be  far  closer  than  usual.  That  seemed  the  case  with 
Henry  V.  ;  in  a  different  way  it  seems  again  the  case 
with  Coriolanus. 

The  technical   factor  of   Coriolanus  in  which   this 


328  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

change  of  mood  most  distinctly  appears  is  the  char- 
acterization. The  personages  remain  individual,  of 
course ;  by  this  time  Shakspere's  hand  was  too  prac- 
tised to  leave  any  figure  indefinite.  Compared  with 
the  personages  in  tlie  plays  we  have  considered  from 
Romeo  and  Juliet  forward,  however,  those  in  Coriolanus 
seem  not  so  conspicuously  individual,  as  typical. 
Volumnia,  for  example,  is  not  only  the  mother  of 
Coriolanus  ;  she  is  the  sort  of  figure  which  moralizers 
have  in  mind  when  they  expound  the  virtues  of  "  the 
Roman  mother  "  in  general.  So  Virgilia  is  the  de- 
voted wife ;  so  Menenius  Agrippa  is  the  wise  old 
friend ;  so,  more  notably  still,  the  tribunes,  Sicinius 
and  Brutus,  are  twin  types  of  the  demagogue.  This 
typical  quality  of  the  characters  in  Coriolanus  is  so 
marked,  indeed,  that  in  the  Elizabethan  sense  of  the 
word  we  may  almost  call  the  characterization  through- 
out this  play  "  humourous."  Such  "  humourous  " 
treatment  of  character  prevails  throughout  didactic 
fiction.     So  Coriolanus  seems  didactic. 

The  trait  is  most  palpable  in  the  twin  demagogues. 
We  have  seen  forerunners  of  them  in  Jack  Cade  and 
in  the  tribune  whose  incendiary  eloquence  during  the 
first  scene  of  Julius  Ccesar  is  so  hackneyed  at  school.^ 
Neither  of  these,  however,  is  anything  like  so  strongly 
emphasized  or  so  fully  developed  as  Sicinius  and 
Brutus.  Nor  in  Henry  VI.  or  Julius  Ccesar  is  there 
anything  like  so  fully  developed  a  presentation  of  the. 
populace  whom  tribunes  or  demagogues  lead.. 

1  See  pp.  80,  243. 


CORIOLANUS  329 

The  people,  in  fact,  —  that  great  underlying  mass  of 
humanity  in  which  must  reside  the  physical  power  of 
any  nation,  —  is  presented  in  Coriolanus  with  ultimate 
precision.  In  Henrt/  VI.  the  vivid  sketch  of  Jack 
Cade's  rebellion  shows  a  turbulently  unreasonable 
mub  which  (piickly  comes  to  grief.  In  Julius  Ccemr^ 
the  mob  is  actually  the  seat  of  power,  which  it  trans- 
fers, at  unreasoning  impulse,  from  one  great  leader 
to  another ;  but  the  great  leaders,  no  unequal  rivals, 
stand  ready  each  in  turn  to  personify  imperial  sover- 
eignty. In  Coriolanus,  the  mob,  unreasoning,  tur- 
bulent, capricious  as  ever,  becomes  a  devouring 
monster.  It  no  longer  contents  itself  with  transfer- 
ring power ;  it  seizes  power  for  itself,  and  once  pos- 
sessed of  power  behaves  with  suicidal  unreason.  The 
climax  from  Henry  VI.,  the  experimental  chronicle- 
history,  through  Julius  Ccesar,  the  last  play  in  which 
we  feel  serene  artistic  poise,  to  Coriolanus,  vfhich  con- 
cludes the  period  of  fiercest  passion,  may  be  described 
as  from  comic,  through  dramatic,  to  tragic. 

For  what  the  mob  attacks  throughout,  and  in  Corio- 
lanus what  the  mob  devours,  is  literally  aristocracy, — 
the  rule  of  those  who  are  best.  This,  with  instinctive 
democratic  distrust  of  excellence  or  superiority,  the 
mob  is  bound  to  overthrow.  In  Shakspere's  earlier 
work  we  have  had  pictures  of  aristocracy,  strong  and 
weak.  In  Henry  V.,  like  Coriolanus  a  {)lay  whose 
mood  is  didactic,  we  saw  aristocracy  wholesomely, 
sympathetically,  worthily  dominant.  In  Antony  and 
Cleopatra,  a  play  which,  with  all  its  chances  for  an 


330  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

Alexandrian  mob,  is  notable  for  neglect  of  the  com- 
mon people,  we  saw  aristocracy  toppling  on  the  verge 
of  ruin,  decadent  through  the  inherent  corruption  of 
human  nature.  In  Coriolanus  himself  we  have  aris- 
tocracy as  nobly  worthy  of  dominance  as  in  Henry  V., 
and  yet  as  inexorably  doomed  as  in  Antony.  The 
fate  of  Coriolanus,  more  cruelly  tragic  than  Antony's, 
comes  from  no  decadence,  no  corruption,  no  vicious 
weakness,  but  rather  from  a  passionate  excess  of  in- 
herently noble  traits,  whose  very  nobility  unfits  them 
for  survival  in  the  ignoble  world  about  them. 

These  traits  are  palpable  in  the  scene  of  Coriolanus' 
candidacy.^  There,  too,  palpably  appears  the  pride 
which  commonplaces  declare  to  be  his  fatal  vice. 
Perhaps  it  is.  Clearly,  however,  he  takes  pride  in 
nothing  but  worthily  conscious  merit ;  nor  does  he 
despise  anything  not  essentially  contemptible ;  his 
mood  is  phrased  in  the  lines,^  — 

"  Better  it  is  to  die,  better  to  starve, 
Than  crave  the  hire  which  first  we  do  deserve." 

In  the  whole  play  Coriolanus  only  once  despises  any- 
thing not  really  mean ;  this  is  when,  in  a  moment  of 
victory,  he  begs  that  a  poor  man  shall  be  spared,  and 
then  does  not  take  the  trouble  to  remember  his  name.^ 
The  hastiness  thus  indicated  is  of  course  a  second 
fault  of  Coriolanus,  whose  temper  is  passionately  in- 
firm. Much  as  he  rages,  however,  his  indignation  is 
almost  always  righteous,  excited  chiefly  by  what  is 

1  II.  iii.  2  120-121.  «  I.  ix.  79-92. 


CORIOLANUS  331 

really  ignoble  in  humanity.  The  weakness  of  his 
temperament  is  not  that  his  anger  is  unreasonably 
aroused,  but  that,  once  aroused,  it  is  excessive. 

In  view  of  this,  the  manner  in  which  the  character 
of  Coriolanus  is  set  forth  becomes  extraordinary. 
Passionate  as  the  man  is,  the  presentation  of  his  story, 
at  least  compared  with  that  of  all  the  stories  we  have 
lately  considered,  seems  cold.  Like  the  other  charac- 
ters in  this  play,  Coriolanus  himself  seems,  by  com- 
parison, almost  "  humourous."  Certainly  the  temper 
in  which  Shakspere  presents  him  is  almost  unsympa- 
thetic ;  it  is  surprisingly  free  from  such  suggestion  of 
deep  personal  feeling  as  has  now  and  again  seemed 
like  self-revelation. 

The  plays  we  have  lately  considered  contain  three 
phases  of  such  self-revelation.  From  Much  Ado 
About  Nothing  forward  there  has  been  a  palpable 
sense  of  irony,  at  first  comic,  later  becoming  a  deep 
tragic  recognition  of  destiny.  From  even  earlier  — 
from  the  Merchant  of  Venice  itself  —  to  Antony  and 
Cleopatra^  there  was  a  constant,  crescent  sense  of  what 
delights  and  mischiefs  come  from  the  loves  of  men 
and  women.  From  Hamlet  to  Macbeth,  there  were 
traces  of  such  over-excitement  of  mind  as  frequently 
suggested  madness.  This  last  trait  disappeared  with 
Macbeth,  unless  we  detect  some  relic  of  it  in  the  tre- 
mendously pregnant  style  both  of  Antony  and  Cleo- 
patra and  of  Coriolanus  itself.  With  Antony  and 
Cleopatra  disappeared  the  second  trait,  —  the  haunt- 
ing sense  of  what   mischief   women   can    work.      In 


332  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

Coriolanus,  then,  we  have  left  of  this  unwitting  self- 
revelation  only  an  intensified  irony,  strangely  divorced 
from  passionate  feeling.  Here,  in  short,  we  have  a 
cold  abstract  contrast  between  ideally  noble  traits 
and  ideally  vile.     They  clash  ;  and  vileness  conquers. 

So  far  does  vileness  conquer,  indeed,  that  the  real 
climax  of  Coriolanus,  obviously  intended  for  a  tri- 
umph of  virtue,  seems  comparatively  weak.  When 
Volumnia  appeals  to  the  magnanimity  of  her  son, 
stirring  it  to  conquer  his  revengeful  pride,^  her 
speeches  hardly  justify  her  success.  Instead  of 
such  supreme  eloquence  as  the  moment  demands, 
we  find  admirable  rhetoric,  versifying  and  giving 
sonorous  dignity  to  the  harangues  of  Plutarch ;  but 
not  wakening  them  into  the  inevitable  vitality  which 
is  the  master-sign  of  Shakspere's  great  work.  To  the 
end  Volumnia  remains  "  the  Roman  mother." 

To  this  weakness  of  climax,  which  apparently  comes 
from  weakness  of  emotional  sympathy  with  a  situation 
intellectually  understood,  may  be  traced  part  of  the 
artistic  dissatisfaction  sometimes  caused  by  Coriolanus. 
The  play,  however,  has  other  tiresome  traits.  While 
by  no  means  short,  it  is  very  monotonous ;  it  lacks 
the  relief  of  such  underplot  and  comedy  as  enliven  the 
great  English  chronicle-histories.  It  lacks,  too,  the 
beauty  of  style  which  might  make  delightful  a  less 
significant  story.  As  verse-tests  indicate,^  the  style 
of  Coriolanus  has  neither  the  lucidity  nor  the  grace  of 
Shakspere's  best  writing;  it  is  pregnant,  even  over- 

1  V.  iii.  131-182.  2  Seep.  326. 


CORIOLANUS  333 

packed  with  meaning,  but  it  suggests  no  underlying 
music.  Shakspere  is  nowhere  less  lyrical,  nowhere 
the  writer  of  words  which,  as  distinguished  from  the 
terms  of  poetry,  produce  an  effect  more  like  that  of 
masterly  prose. 

The  prose  of  Coriolanus,  to  be  sure,  is  masterly ; 
the  play  remains  Shakspereanly  great.  Its  greatness, 
however,  is  not  ultimate ;  its  style  lacks  simplicity 
and  beauty,  its  conception  lacks  poise,  sympathetic 
serenity,  artistic  purity.  For  Shakspere,  indeed,  as 
we  have  seen,  the  mood  which  underlies  it  is  strangely 
akin  to  one  of  political  or  social  philosophy ;  and  a 
philosophy,  too,  of  a  grim,  repellent  kind.  Nowhere 
can  we  feel  more  distinctly  why  to  some  modern  phil- 
anthropic dreamers  Sliakspere,  for  all  his  art,  presents 
himself  as  a  colossal  enemy,  as  a  tradition  which 
advancing  Humanity  ought  ruthlessly  to  overthrow. 
For,  very  surely,  no  work  in  literature  more  truly 
and  unflinchingly  expounds  the  inherent  danger  and 
evil  of  democracy ;  nor  does  any  show  less  recog- 
nition of  the  numerous  benefits  which  our  century 
believes  to  counterbalance  them. 

When  we  remember  that  verse-tests,  and  little  else, 
place  Coriolanus  where  we  consider  it,  the  relation  of 
its  mood  to  those  which  precede  becomes  very  strik- 
ing. Esthetic  conviction  confirms  a  classification 
which  at  first  seems  blindly  inappreciative.  From 
the  unpassionate  irony  of  Julius  Ccesar  we  have  fol- 
lowed Shakspere  through  the  series  of  plays  which 
remain  emotionally  his  greatest.     These,    we    found, 


334  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

artistically  expressed  a  mental  activity  and  an  in- 
tensity of  passion  which  uncontrolled  might  have 
threatened  reason  itself.  These,  too,  we  found,  con- 
stantly expressed,  in  varied  terms,  a  sense  of  the 
troubles  involved  in  the  relations  of  the  sexes.  From 
this  storm  of  passion  we  emerged  through  the  sternly 
objective  study  of  decadent  virtue  so  ultimately  made 
in  Ayitony  and  Cleopatra.  Here,  in  Coriolanus,  we 
finally  find  Shakspere,  with  almost  cynical  coldness, 
artistically  expounding  the  inherent  weakness  of 
moral  nobility,  the  inherent  strength  and  power  of 
all  that  is  intellectually  and  morally  vile. 

This  mood  of  cold  depression  involves  a  funda- 
mental lack  of  enthusiasm,  unlike  anything  we  have 
met  before.  The  tremendous  creative  impulse  which 
has  pervaded  everything  since  the  Midsummer  Night^s 
Dream  seems  somehow  weakened.  The  same  impres- 
sion results  finally  from  the  "  humourous  "  treatment 
of  character  in  Coriolanus  ;  the  same  from  the  philo- 
sophical, as  distinguished  from  dramatic,  temper 
which  pervades  it ;  the  same,  too,  from  the  inade- 
quacy of  Volumnia's  appeal,  which  ought  properly 
to  stir  one  to  the  depths.  Coriolanus  is  a  great  trag- 
edy ;  but,  for  all  its  greatness,  one  finds  in  it  symp- 
tom after  symptom  of  weakening  creative  energy. 


SHAKSPEKK  FKOM    lUUU  TU  1UU6  335 


XII.    Shakspere  from  1600  to  1608. 

In  this  chapter  we  have  considered  the  work  of 
Shakspere  between  1600  and  1608.  These  years  took 
him  from  the  age  of  thirty-six  to  that  of  forty-four, 
and  from  the  thirteenth  year  of  his  professional  life  to 
the  twenty-first.  They  were  years,  too,  when  various 
records  show  him  to  have  been  pretty  steadily  im- 
proving in  worldly  fortune.^  It  is  worth  while  now  to 
pause  for  a  moment,  and  review  our  impression  of 
this  period. 

Once  for  all,  again,  we  must  admit  our  chronology 
to  be  uncertain.  With  the  exception  of  All 's  Well 
that  Ends  Well,  however, —  which  may  be  the  Love's 
Labour 's  Won  mentioned  by  Meres  in  1598,  —  none 
of  the  plays  considered  in  this  chapter  are  known  to 
have  been  alluded  to  before  1600.  The  inference  is 
that  none  of  them  existed  earlier.  In  1601  there  was 
a  distinct  allusion  to  Julius  Ccesar  ;  in  1603  and  1604 
there  were  quarto  editions  oi  Hamlet ;  in  1608,  Antontf 
and  Cleopatra  was  entered  in  the  Stationers'  Regis- 
ter, and  King  Lear  was  published ;  in  1609,  Troilus 
and  Cressida  was  publislicd ;  in  1610,  Othello  and 
Macbeth  were  acted.  Within  two  years  of  1608,  then, 
we  have  evidence  that  all  but  three  of  the  plays  con- 
sidered in  this  chapter  existed.  These  three  are  All '« 
Well  that  Ends  Well,  which  after  all  makes  little  dif- 

1  See  p.  18. 


336  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

ference  in  our  total  impression;  Measure  for  Measure ; 
and  Coriolanus.  For  the  dates  of  the  last  two  we 
must  rely  wholly  on  internal  evidence,  —  allusions 
and  verse-tests.  This  evidence,  however,  places  them 
near  other  plays  so  like  them  in  mood  that  we  are 
warranted  in  accepting  the  result  with  considerable 
confidence.  On  the  whole,  then,  we  may  fairly  assume 
that,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  stray  passages,  none 
of  the  work  considered  in  this  chapter  existed  in 
1600 ;  and  that  all  of  it  was  substantially  finished  by 
1608.  Our  business  now  is  to  define  afresh  our  im- 
pression of  Shakspere. 

Already  we  have  similarly  defined  our  impression 
of  him  three  times.  First,  we  found  that  in  1593,  at 
the  age  of  twenty-nine,  and  after  six  years  of  profes- 
sional life,  he  had  displayed  a  habit  of  mind  by  which 
words  and  concepts  seemed  almost  identical ;  he  had 
shown  unusual  versatility  in  trying  his  hand  at  all 
kinds  of  contemporary  writing;  and,  finally,  by  en- 
livening characters  with  the  results  of  actual  obser- 
vation, he  had  made  some  of  his  personages  more 
human  than  any  others  on  the  English  stage.  Apart 
from  this,  the  work  of  these  six  experimental  years 
amounted  to  little. 

Our  next  summary  revealed  a  very  different  state  of 
things.  In  1600,  at  the  age  of  thirty-six,  and  after  thir- 
teen years  of  professional  life,  Shakspere  had  produced 
not  only  his  best  comedies  and  histories,  but  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  and  a  constant  series  of  characters  which, 
in  themselves,  suffice  to  place  him  at  the  head  of  ima^- 


SHAKSPERE   FROM   1600   TO    1608  337 

native  English  Literature.  After  his  prolonged  period 
of  experiment  his  creative  imagination  had  at  last  be- 
gun to  work  spontaneously,  with  generally  increasing 
precision  and  power.  Pretty  clearly,  however,  it  did 
not  always  work  with  equal  strength  in  every  direction; 
and  the  old  trait  of  versatility  displayed  itself  under  the 
new  aspect  of  versatile  concentration.  His  imagina- 
tion, too,  revealed  its  creative  strength,  not  by  invent- 
ing new  things,  but  by  developing  old  ones.  His 
characters  certainly  began  to  live  like  actual  people. 
His  phrases  began  so  to  simplify  and  to  strengthen 
that  one  instinctively  tended  to  believe  him  more  and 
more  conscious  of  thought,  as  distinguished  from  word. 
At  least  in  the  matter  of  stage-business,  however,  and 
a^  little  less  palpably  in  other  matters  too,  he  showed 
80  marked  a  disposition  to  repeat,  with  subtle  varia- 
tion, whatever  he  had  once  found  effective,  that  we 
saw  reason  to  wonder  whether  he  might  not  have  felt 
hampered  by  a  conscious  sluggishness  of  invention. 
No  depressing  sense,  though,  of  limitation  or  of  any- 
thing else,  affected  his  work,  which  was  animated 
throughout  by  a  robust,  buoyant  vigor  of  artistic 
imagination.  In  the  chronicle-histories,  too,  there 
was  a  grand  sense  of  historic  movement ;  in  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  and  in  all  the  comedies,  there  was  a  de- 
lightful romantic  feeling;  in  the  substitution  of  self- 
deception  for  mistaken  identity  as  the  chief  device 
of  comedy,  there  was  at  least  increasing  maturity ; 
and  in  the  idealized  heroines,  from  Portia  to  Viola, 
there   was    clear  understanding  of   how   a  charming 

22 


338  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

woman  can  fascinate  a  romantic  lover.  Apart  from 
the  touch  of  irony  in  Much  Ado  About  Nothing, 
however,  w^  could  detect  hardly  any  deep  knowledge 
of  spiritual  experience. 

The  ^Sonnets,  which  we  considered  next,  indicated 
something  more.  Whatever  their  origin  and  their 
history,  they  not  only  expressed,  in  distinctly  per- 
sonal terms,  the  profoundly  artistic  temperament 
and  the  consciously  mastered  literary  art  already 
impersonally  evident  in  the  plays.  They  revealed, 
besides,  a  sympathetic  understanding  of  spiritual 
suffering  ;  and  the  terms  by  which  they  revealed  it 
involved  equal  knowledge  of  the  tragic  misery  which 
comes  from  passionate  human  love. 

Through  the  Sonnets  we  approached  the  plays  con- 
sidered in  this  chapter.  In  these  we  have  found  deeper 
traits  still.  While,  like  aH  the  plays  of  Shakspere,  even 
the  great  tragedies  are  distinctly  intended  for  the  stage, 
—  and,  what  is  more,  despite  thoroughly  changed  con- 
ditions, are  still  theatrically  effective,  —  they  involve 
on  the  part  of  their  writer  something  deeper  than  mere 
mastery  of  his  art,  and  vigorous,  spontaneous  creative 
imagination.  Unlike  the  earlier  work,  these  later 
plays  reveal  an  unswerving  artistic  impulse.  Versa 
tility  of  experiment  and  of  concentration  gives  place 
to  sustained  intensity  of  feeling.  Over  and  over  again, 
in  endless  variety  of  substance  and  of  detail,  of  con- 
ception and  of  phrase  alike,  these  plays  show  them- 
selves the  work  of  one  who  at  least  sympathetically 
has  sounded  the  depths  of  human  suffering  ;  and  has 


SHAKSPERE   FROM    1000  TO    1G08  339 

sounded  them,  too,  in  a  manner  like  that  already  sug- 
gested by  the  Sonnets.  The  temperament  revealed 
by  these  plays,  meanwhile,  confirming  our  impression 
from  the  Sonnets^  is  distinctly  individual.  Individual, 
too,  is  the  mood  which,  taken  together,  the  plays 
reveal.  Throughout  is  a  profound,  fatalistic  sense  of 
the  impotence  of  man  in  the  midst  of  his  environ- 
ment ;  now  dispassionate,  now  fierce  with  passion, 
this  sense  —  which  we  called  a  sense  of  irony  —  per- 
vades every  play  from  Julius  Ccesar  to  Coriolanus. 
In  the  second  place,  from  All 's  Well  that  Ends  Well 
to  Antony  and  Cleopatra^  there  is  a  sense  of  something 
in  the  relations  between  men  and  women  at  once 
widely  different  from  the  ideal,  romantic  fascination 
expressed  by  the  comedies,  and  yet  just  what  should 
normally  follow  from  such  a  beginning.  Trouble  first, 
then  vacillating  doubt,  then  the  certainty  that  woman 
may  be  damningly  evil,  succeed  one  another  in  the 
growth  of  this  mood  which  so  inextricably  mingles 
with  the  ironical.  Finally,  from  Hamlet  to  Macbeth, 
along  with  the  constant  irony  and  the  constant  trouble 
which  surrounds  the  fact  of  woman,  we  found  equally 
constant  traces  of  deep  sympathy  with  such  abnormal, 
overwrought  states  of  mind  as,  uncontrolled  by  tre- 
mendous power  both  of  will  and  of  artistic  expression, 
might  easily  have  lapsed  into  madness. 

These  three  traits  together  reached  tlieir  climax  in 
Macbeth.  In  Macbeth,  too,  persisted  that  increasing 
precision  and  compactness  of  style  which  leads  one 
constantly  to  feel  that  Shakspere,  who  surely  began 


340  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

his  conscious  artistic  career  as  a  maker  of  phrases, 
tended  almost  steadily  to  consider  phrases  less,  and 
concepts  more.  The  trait  of  style  which  first  appears 
in  Macbeth  —  the  weak  ending  —  points  to  this  conclu- 
sion. Conceivably,  of  course,  only  a  fresh  metrical 
experiment  by  a  writer  who  had  always  been  eager 
for  verbal  novelty,  this  undoubted  symptom  of  a 
weakening  verse  seems  rather  evidence  that  at  last 
the  writer  cared  less  for  how  his  verse  sounded  than 
for  what  it  meant.  From  the  very  beginning,  Shaks- 
pere's  lines  have  tended  to  mean  more  and  more ; 
and  this  tendency — involving  his  tremendous  activity 
of  thought  —  never  weakens  to  the  very  end. 

With  Macbeth,  however,  disappeared  the  essentially 
overwrought  mood  which  appeared  with  Hamlet ;  An- 
tony and  Cleopatra,  in  some  respects  the  most  masterly 
of  Shakspere's  plays,  contained  no  suggestion  of  this 
fiercest  tendency  of  the  great  tragedies  —  the  tendency 
toward  something  like  madness.  With  consummate 
command  of  conception  and  of  style  alike,  it  presented 
the  greatest  picture  in  English  Literature  of  decadent 
virtue ;  and  in  Cleopatra  herself  it  presented  such  a 
summary  of  evil  womanhood  as  we  have  found  Shaks- 
pere  prone  to  make  of  matters  from  which  he  was 
passing.  In  the  Falstaff  scenes  of  Henry  IV.,  for  ex- 
ample, he  gave  a  final  picture  of  the  actual  condition 
of  life  from  which  he  had  emerged.  In  Twelfth  Night, 
he  recapitulated  the  whole  joyous  mood  of  his  early 
comedy.  So  in  Cleopatra  he  finally  summed  up,  with 
retrospective  completeness,  his  sense  of  all  the  harm 


SHAKSPERE    FROM   1600   TO    1608  341 

which  woman  can  do ;  and  with  Cleopatra  damning 
fascination  disappeared. 

Not  so  the  irony,  however.  In  Coriolanus,  irony  — 
unrelieved,  dully  passionate — was  fiercer,  more  savage, 
than  ever.  Somehow,  though,  it  had  become  the  in- 
spiring force  no  longer  of  emotion,  but  of  solid  thought. 
The  contrast  between  good  and  evil  had  become  so 
abstract  that  it  phrased  itself,  for  the  first  time  in 
Shakspere's  serious  work,  rather  deliberately  than 
imaginatively.  For  the  first  time  since  the  Midsum- 
mer Night's  Bream,  if  not  indeed  for  the  first  time 
of  all,  the  characters  set  forth  by  Shakspere  seemed 
rather  "  humourous  "  than  human  ;  after  the  tradi- 
tional English  fashion,  they  seemed  made  to  embody 
traits ;  they  were  not,  like  the  great  creations  of 
Shakspere,  beings  which  had  grown  of  themselves  into 
all  the  inevitable  complexity  of  human  individuality. 
In  Coriolamis,  for  the  first  time  since  the  experimental 
work  of  so  many  years  before,  we  missed  the  sponta- 
neity of  imagination  which  had  pervaded  both  the 
merely  artistic  work  of  Shakspere's  second  period, 
and  this  passionate  work  of  his  third. 

Exhaustion  seems  a  strange  word  to  use  about 
Coriolanus ;  yet  this  weakening  of  creative  energy  is 
surely  a  symptom  of  such  exhaustion  as  should  nor- 
mally follow  the  unprecedented,  unequalled  activity 
of  creative  power  which  had  gone  before.  If  exhaus- 
tion it  be,  however,  which  this  cold,  bitter  tragedy 
reveals,  it  is  surely  an  exhaustion  which  the  artist  to 
whom  it  came  would  hardly  recognize  as  such.     For 


342  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

eight  years,  we  have  seen,  —  from  thirty-six  to  forty- 
four, —  he  had  been  constantly  producing  great  tragic 
poems,  unsurpassed  for  range  and  power,  and  at 
their  height  full  of  overwrought  spontaneous  intensity. 
All  along  this  intensity  had  been  accompanied  by  a 
growing  power  both  of  philosophic  thought  and  of 
verbal  expression.  Intellectually,  Shakspere  had  never 
been  more  powerfully  active  than  he  shows  himself 
in  Coriolanus.  As  the  intensity  of  emotional  im- 
pulse weakened,  then,  while  the  full  power  of  vig- 
orous thought  remained,  we  may  imagine  Shakspere 
himself  to  have  felt  conscious  rather  of  increasing 
self-mastery  than  of  any  loss.  Coriolanus,  indeed,  is 
such  work  as  an  artist,  with  what  seems  perversity, 
is  apt  to  deem  his  best.  The  very  weakening  of  spon- 
taneous power  which  puts  an  end  to  merits  of  which 
an  artist  is  normally  unconscious,  emphasizes  the 
more  deliberate  merits  of  which,  above  any  spectator 
or  reader,  an  artist  is  aware. 

In  these  eight  years,  from  1600  to  1608,  then,  the 
years  when  Shakspere  surely  did  the  work  which 
makes  him  supremely  great,  we  may  believe  him  at 
last  to  have  been  actuated  by  a  really  profound  series 
of  emotional  impulses  which  forced  him  to  express 
them  with  every  engine  of  his  art.  At  the  height  of 
this  tremendous  artistic  experience  came  an  over- 
wrought intensity  of  mind  which  carried  the  inherent 
misery  of  tragic  conception  almost  to  the  verge  of 
madness.  Then,  slowly,  came  growing  self-control, 
increasing    vigor   of    concentrated    thought,    finally 


SHAKSPERE   FROM   1600   TO   1608  343 

what  should  seem  fresh  certainty  of  mastery.  Unwit- 
tingly to  the  master,  however,  this  very  self-mastery 
meant  that  his  great  power  of  spontaneous  imagina- 
tion, which  for  thirteen  years,  from  the  Midsummer 
Night's  Bream  to  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  had  been 
constant,  was  at  last  deserting  him. 

In  view  of  this,  we  may  now  well  turn  to  the  other 
records  of  English  Literature  during  these  eight  years.^ 
In  1601  were  published  Bacon's  account  of  the  Trea- 
sons  of  the  Earl  of  Essex,  and  Jonson's  Poetaster  ;  in 
1602  came  Campion's  Art  of  English  Poetry,  David- 
son's Poetical  Rhapsody,  Dekker's  Satiromastix,  Mars- 
ton's  Antonio  and  Mellida  and  Antonio''s  Mevenge, 
and  Middleton's  Randall,  Earl  of  Chester,  and  Blurt, 
Master  Constable;  in  1603  came  Bacon's  Apology 
concerning  the  late  Earl  of  Essex,  Florio's  Montaigne, 
Hey  wood's  Woman  Killed  with  Kindness,  and  Jonson's 
Sejanus.  This,  we  remember,  was  the  year  when  Queen 
Elizabeth  died  and  King  James  came  to  the  throne. 
In  1604  were  published  King  James's  Counterblast 
to  Tobacco,  and  Marston's  Malcontent ;  in  1605,  came 
Bacon's  Advancement  of  Learning,  Camden's  Remains, 
Chapman's  All  Fools,  and  plays  by  Jonson  and  Mar- 
ston,  —  Jonson's  Volpone,  too,  was  acted ;  in  1606  were 
published  plays  by  Chapman  and  by  Marston,  and 
Stowe's  Chronicle;  in  1607,  the  Woman  Hater  —  the 
first  play  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  —  was  acted,  and 
among  the  publications  were  Chapman's  Bussy  d\4.m- 

1  As  before,  we  may  conveniently  rely  on  Ryland's  Chronological 
Outlines,  wh\ch  suggests  enough  for  our  purpose 


344  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

bois,  Dekker  and  Webster's  Westward  Ho,  Marston's 
What  You  Will,  and  Tourneur's  Revenger's  Tragedy. 
In  1608  —  the  year  when  Clarendon,  Fuller,  and  Mil- 
ton were  born  —  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Philaster 
was  perhaps  acted  ;  and  among  the  publications  were 
Hall's  Characters  of  Virtues  and  Vices,  and  plays  by 
Chapman  and  by  Middleton. 

Hasty  and  incomplete  though  the  list  be,  it  is 
enough  for  our  purpose.  A  mere  glance  at  it  will 
show  that,  in  comparison  with  either  of  the  earlier 
periods  of  publication  which  we  considered,^  the  pre- 
ponderance of  dramatic  work  is  marked  ;  and  what  is 
more,  that  this  work  includes  not  such  archaic  plays 
as  those  which  Shakspere  found  on  the  stage  in  1587, 
but  the  ripest  work  of  Dekker,  Heywood,  Jonson, 
Marston,  and  Middleton  ;  and  good  work  by  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher,  Tourneur,  and  Webster.  It  was 
during  the  period  of  Shakspere's  great  tragic  plays,  in 
short,  that  what  we  now  think  of  as  the  Elizabethan 
drama  came  into  existence  ;  and  in  1608,  when  at  last 
Shakspere's  creative  energy  showed  symptoms  of 
exhaustion,  he  was  surrounded  on  every  side  by  rival 
dramatists,  of  great  inventive  as  well  as  poetic  power, 
whose  work  was  so  good  that  no  contemporary  crit- 
icism could  surely  have  ranked  it  below  his  own. 

1  See  pp.  97,  210. 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS.  AND  PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF  TYRE 

[Timon  of  Athens  was  first  entered  in  1623  and  published  in  the 
folio. 

Its  sources  are  Paynter's  Palace  of  Pleasure  and  a  passage  from  the 
Life  of  Antony  in  North's  Plutarch. 

On  internal  evidence  it  has  been  conjecturally  assigned  to  the  period 
we  have  now  reached,  about  1 607. 

Pericles  was  published  in  quarto,  with  Shakspere's  name,  in  1609. 
It  was  republished  in  1611  and  in  1619,  but  was  not  included  in  the 
folio  of  1623.  It  was  not  added  to  Shakspere's  collected  works  until 
the  third  folio,  —  1 663-4.  Among  the  seven  plays  then  added  to  the 
old  collection  tliis  is  the  only  one  not  generally  thought  spurious. 

Its  sources  are  Lawrence  Twine's  Patteme  of  Painefull  Adventures, 
and  Gower's  Confessio  Amantis.  Parts  of  the  story  may  be  traced  back 
to  the  fifth  or  sixth  century. 

On  internal  evidence,  Pericles  has  been  conjecturally  assigned  to 
1608  or  thereabouts. 

In  both  Timon  and  Pericles  there  is  much  matter  believed  not  to  be 
by  Shakspere.  In  the  Transactions  of  the  New  Shakspere  Society  for 
1874  ^  appear  conjectural  selections  of  what  passages  in  these  plays  are 
believed  to  be  genuine.  Just  what  part  Shakspere  had  in  these  plays, 
—  whether  he  planned,  or  retouched,  or  collaborated,  —  nobody  has 
determined.] 

Before  this  we  have  seen  work  by  Shakspere  which 
is  comparatively  weak.  Even  after  his  experimental 
period,  at  the  time  when  his  imagination  was  begin- 
ning to  display  its  utmost  vigor,  we  found  that  when 

1  Pages  130,  253. 


346  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

his  attention  was  concentrated  on  anything,  something 
else  was  apt  to  suffer.  Since  Titus  Andronicus  itself, 
though,  we  have  found  nothing  so  palpably  weak  as 
the  two  plays  which  we  here  consider  together.  In 
total  effect,  neither  of  tliem  seems  anywhere  near 
worthy  of  Shakspere, 

This  weakness,  of  course,  is  partly  due  to  the  gen- 
erally admitted  fact  that  considerable  portions  of  these 
plays  are  by  other  hands.  This  does  not  cover  the 
matter,  however.  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  is  said 
to  be  largely  by  other  hands  ;  yet  the  Taming  of  the 
Shrew  never  seems,  like  Timon  and  Pericles^  essen- 
tially unworthy  of  a  place  in  Shakspere's  work.  To 
appreciate  why  these  plays  are  given  such  a  place,  we 
must  for  the  moment  abandon  our  habit  of  considering 
plays  as  complete  works,  and  attend  only  to  details. 
Take,  for  example,  Timon's  speech  to  Apemantus :  ^  — 

*'  Thou  art  a  slave,  whom  Fortune's  tender  arm 
With  favour  never  clasp'd  ;  but  bred  a  dog. 
Hadst  tliou,  like  us  from  our  first  swath,  proceeded 
The  sweet  degrees  that  this  brief  world  affords 
To  such  as  may  the  passive  drugs  of  it 
Freely  command,  thou  wouldst  have  plunged  thyself 
In  general  riot,"  etc. 

Or  again,  take  Timon's  better-known  last  speech  :  ^ 

"  Come  not  to  me  again  :  but  say  to  Athens, 
Timon  hath  made  his  everlasting  mansion 
Upon  the  beached  verge  of  the  salt  flood  ; 
Who  once  a  day  with  his  embossed  froth 
The  turljulent  surge  shall  cover." 

1  IV.  ill.  250.  2  V.  i.  217. 


TIMON   AND  PERICLES  347 

Witliout  knowing  why,  any  one  who  knows  Shaks- 
pere's  style,  must  feel  sure  that  Shakspere  wrote  these 
lines.  They  are  typical  of  many  in  Tlmon  of  Athens  ; 
weak  thougli  the  play  must  remain  as  a  whole,  it  con- 
tains passages  good  enough  for  any  one. 

With  Pericles  the  case  is  similar.  Here,  to  be 
sure,  Shakspere's  work  is  supposed  to  begin  only 
with  the  third  act,  where  the  shipwreck  scene  has 
such  obvious  likeness  to  the  better  shipwreck  scene 
of  the  Tempest.  From  thence  on  we  may  find  many 
traces  of  Shakspere,  The  scene  between  Marina  and 
Leonine,  in  the  fourth  act,^  for  example,  while  none 
too  powerful,  is  distinctly  in  his  manner.  So  is  the 
last  scene,  particularly  where  Pericles  and  Marina 
meet; 2  the  situation,  which  in  any  other  hands  than 
Shakspere's  might  have  become  intolerably  monstrous, 
is  treated  with  a  delicacy  distinctly  his  own. 

These  occasional  passages,  amid  so  much  that  is 
worthless,  give  these  plays  their  place  among  those 
generally  ascribed  to  Shakspere ;  and  so  far  as  verse- 
tests  can  guide  us  under  such  uncertain  conditions, 
both  plays  seem  to  belong  nearly  where  we  place 
them, —  a  conclusion  which  in  the  case  of  Pericles 
is  supported  by  the  fact  of  its  publication  in  1609. 
Thus  placed,  these  plays,  so  uninteresting  in  them- 
selves, become  unexpectedly  notable. 

They  belong,  we  assume,  at  the  end  of  the  passion- 
ate period  which  produced  the  great  tragedies  ;  they 
precede,  as  we  shall  see,  three  plays,  Cymheline,  the 

1  rV.  i.  51-91.  2  V.  i.  64  seq. 


348  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

Tempest,  and  the  Winter's  Tale,  of  which  the  temper 
is  not  gloomy  or  passionate,  but  serenely  romantic. 
Between  this  group  and  the  tragic  group  there  is  a 
very  marked  contrast ;  the  groups  express  totally 
different  artistic  moods. 

Such  sudden  contrasts  are  common  in  artistic 
careers.  From  time  to  time  an  artist  will  find  him- 
self possessed  of  an  imaginative  impulse  which  seems 
final.  In  the  mood  which  that  impulse  involves  — 
grand  or  petty,  solemn  or  gay  —  the  whole  truth  of 
life,  so  far  as  he  can  express  it,  will  seem  compressed. 
He  will  go  on,  expressing  himself  in  phrase  after 
phrase  concerning  this  elusive,  inspiring  impulse. 
All  of  a  sudden  his  power  will  lapse.  He  can  do 
no  more;  he  can  only  caricature  his  old  self,  or 
blunder  vaguely  in  search  of  some  new,  equally  or 
freshly  potent  motive.  The  experience  is  as  fre- 
quent in  tyros  and  scribblers  as  in  the  great  artists 
whose  manners  change.  At  one  moment,  for  ex- 
ample, a  youth  can  write  sentimental  verse ;  the 
vein  runs  dry ;  he  flutters  about  searching  for  rhymes 
and  melodies  that  will  not  come ;  and  by  and  by 
proves  to  have  a  vein  of  light  satire,  instead,  or  of 
serious  critical  thought,  and  so  on.  Between  these 
two  periods  of  production  there  will  almost  always 
come  an  interval  of  transitional  stagnation,  comi- 
cally or  painfully  like  the  calm  between  two  adverse 
breezes. 

Between  the  general  mood  of  Timon  and  that  of 
Pericles  there  is  just  such  a  contrast  as  marks  an 


TIMON   OF   ATHENS  349 

artistic  transition  from  one  dominating  mood  to  an- 
other ;  and  throughout  both  plays,  even  in  the  parts 
which  seem  genuinely  Shakspere's,  there  is  just  such 
weakness  of  imaginative  impulse  as  normally  belongs 
to  such  transition.  All  this  matter,  of  course,  is 
hypothetical.  How  much  of  these  plays  is  Shaks- 
pere's, and  when  he  wrote  his  part  of  them,  can 
never  be  determined.  That  modern  verse-tests  place 
these  plays  here,  though,  quite  apart  from  their 
substance,  becomes  notable  when  we  consider  their 
artistic  character ;  for,  if  our  chronology  be  true, 
we  have  met  hardly  any  fact  which  goes  further 
than  the  weakness  of  these  transitional  plays  to  prove 
that,  vast  as  Shakspere's  genius  was,  it  worked  by 
the  same  laws  which  govern  the  aesthetic  experience 
of  any  honest  modern  artist. 

To  consider  these  plays  in  more  detail,  Tirnon  is 
the  last  work  of  Shakspere's  where  the  predominating 
mood  is  gloomy.  Broadly,  if  monotonously  planned, 
it  is  throughout  exasperatingly  undramatic.  The  plot 
is  not  only  capable  of  dramatic  treatment,  but  essen- 
tially probable.  What  happens  might  happen  any- 
where :  a  man,  born  rich,  wastes  his  substance,  and 
when  he  is  poor  finds  his  swans  all  geese  —  wherefore 
misanthropy.  Yet,  for  all  this  inherent  plausibility, 
Shakspere  is  never  less  plausible.  The  first  scene, 
to  be  sure,  is  broad,  firm,  and  not  without  action; 
even  here,  however,  the  characters  are  presented  so 
externally,  so  "  humourously,"  that  the  scene  seems 
more  like  Ben  Jonson's  work  than  Shakspere's.     At 


350  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

times,  indeed,  it  reminds  one  rather  of  the  classic 
French  comedy  than  of  English.  After  this  first 
scene,  one  never  feels  as  if  anything  in  Timon  were 
so.  Except  very  faintly  in  Timon  himself  there  is 
never  a  trace  of  real,  as  distinguished  from  conven- 
tionally "  humourous,"  character ;  there  is  nowhere 
a  whiff  of  real  atmosphere,  either,  —  what  happens, 
takes  place  only  on  the  stage.  In  this  respect  Timon 
is  at  the  opposite  pole  from  the  Merchant  of  Venice : 
there  the  vigor  of  Shakspere's  creative  imagination 
made  characters  and  atmosphere  so  real  that  we 
never  stop  to  think  what  absurd  things  are  going 
on  ^ ;  in  Timon  there  is  such  weakness  of  creative 
imagination  that  we  can  hardly  realize  how  what 
goes  on  might  really  occur  anywhere.  The  merit 
of  Timon,  in  short,  so  far  as  it  has  any,  lies  wholly 
in  isolated  passages,  notable  for  firmness  of  phrase. 
It  is  just  such  merit  as  we  should  expect  to 
survive,  no  matter  how  fully  imaginative  impulse 
should  desert  a  poet  like  Shakspere.  After  above 
twenty  years  of  faithful  work,  his  masterly  style 
was  bound  to  have  become  a  fixed  habit  of  expres- 
sion. Had  he  failed  now  and  again  to  phrase  single 
thoughts  with  ultimate  felicity,  lie  would  almost  have 
been  writing  in  a  new  language.  Apart  from  this  mere 
survival  of  style,  Timon  throughout  indicates  exhaus- 
tion of  creative  energy.  Its  irapotcntly  "  humourous  " 
treatment  of  character  reminds  one,  rather  painfully, 
of  the  first  symptoms  of  creative  weakness  in  Corio' 

1  See  p.  148. 


PERICLES,   PRINCE  OF  TYRE  351 

lanus.  Its  general  mood,  too,  is  colder,  more  cynical, 
darker  even  than  that.  The  misanthropy  which  un- 
derlies Timon,  indeed,  is  savage  enough  to  suggest 
the  more  masterly  misanthropy  of  Swift.  If  Timun 
be  the  darkest  of  all  the  plays,  though,  it  is  likewise 
the  most  impotent  as  yet. 

In  impotence,  however,  Pericles  perhaps  outstrips 
it.  Pericles,  too,  has  other  symptoms  of  decline. 
Among  Shakspere's  plays  it  is  unique  for  monstrosity 
of  motive ;  and  even  though  its  most  monstrous  pas- 
sages occur  in  the  first  act,  which  is  thought  to  be  by 
another  hand,  Shakspere  probably  accepted  them  as 
part  of  the  scheme  into  which  his  own  work  should  fit. 
Such  monstrosity  of  motive  is  a  frequent  symptom  of 
artistic  transition.  Aware  that  creative  energy  is  ex- 
hausted, an  artist  is  apt  to  grow  reckless  ;  and,  if  he 
be  addressing  a  popular  audience,  he  is  tempted  to 
supply  his  lack  of  imagination  by  shocking  or  mon- 
strous devices.  Some  such  phenomenon  marks  the 
decay  of  many  schools  of  art,  and  of  none  more 
distinctly  than  the  Elizabethan  drama.  In  motive, 
then,  even  more  than  in  impotence,  Pericles  is  a  ])lay 
of  the  Elizabethan  decadence. 

The  impotence  shown  in  Pericles,  however,  differs 
essentially  from  that  of  Timon.  Here  the  weakness 
is  not  so  much  of  exhaustion  as  of  experiment.  Tlie 
word  "experiment,"  to  be  sure,  recalls  Shakspere's 
earliest  plays,  which  are  very  unlike  this.  There  is 
nothing  in  Pericles  to  remind  one  of  Titus  Andronicus, 
or  of  Henry  VI.,  ov  of  Love's  Labour  ^s  Loi<t,  or  of  the 


352  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

Comedy  of  Errors,  or  of  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 
Like  them,  however,  Pericles  may  fairly  be  regarded 
as  preliminary  to  what  shall  follow.  The  difference 
between  this  experiment  and  the  old  ones  is  that  while 
those  were  formal,  this,  which  now  and  again  reveals 
disdainful  mastery  of  mere  form,  tries  to  express  a  kind 
of  motive  whose  substance  is  new  to  Shakspere. 

Unlike  Tiynon,  and  all  the  plays  we  have  consid- 
ered since  Twelfth  Night,  Pericles  is  in  no  sense 
a  tragedy ;  it  is  a  romance,  which  carries  its  story 
through  a  period  of  dismay  and  confusion  to  a  serene 
close.  In  this  respect,  to  be  sure,  we  might  group  it 
with  many  of  the  earlier  plays,  —  with  the  Merchant 
of  Venice,  for  example,  and  Much  Ado  About  Nothing, 
and  As  You  Like  It,  and  Twelfth  Night  ;  or  even  in 
some  degree  with  AlVs  Well  that  Ends  Well,  and 
Measure  for  Measure.  From  all  of  these,  however, 
it  may  be  distinguished  by  at  least  two  traits  which 
group  it  with  the  three  great  romances  still  to  come, 
—  Cymheline,  the  Tempest,  and  the  Winter's  Tale  :  in 
the  first  place,  it  attempts  within  the  limits  of  a  single 
performance  to  deal  with  the  events  of  a  whole  lifetime, 
in  much  such  manner  as  Sidney's  Defence  of  Poesy 
ridiculed.  In  the  second  place,  the  ultimate  serenity 
comes  not  after  a  short,  concentrated  period  of  dis- 
aster, but  only  after  a  long  and  seemingly  tragic 
experience  of  the  rudest  buffets  of  life.  Underlying 
such  a  conception  as  this  is  a  new  artistic  mood  :  the 
world  still  seems  evil,  to  be  sure  ;  but  wait  long  enough, 
and  even  in  this  world  the  evil  shall  pass. 


TIMON   AND   PP:KICLES  353 

111  this  aspect,  which  some  critics,  deeming  Shaks- 
pere  more  moralist  tliaii  artist,  take  to  involve  a 
deliberate  preaching  of  reconciliation,  Pericles  fore- 
shadows the  three  romances  to  come.  In  more  than 
one  detail,  too,  it  suggests  them.  The  shipwreck,  for 
example,  reminds  one  a  little  of  Twelfth  Niyht  and 
the  Comedy  of  Errors,  but  far  more  of  the  Tempest.^ 
The  story  of  Marina  has  something  in  common  with 
that  of  Miranda,  and  more  with  that  of  Perdita.  The 
recovery  of  the  priestess  Thaisa,  recalling  that  of 
-(Emilia  in  the  Comedy  of  Errors,  is  still  more  like 
that  of  Hermione  in  the  Winter's  Tale.  Clearly 
enough,  Pericles  bears  to  the  coming  romances  a 
relation  very  like  that  borne  to  the  great  comedies 
by  the  experimental.  Just  as  this  second  period  of 
experiment  is  shorter,  and  its  fruit  less  ripe  than 
was  the  case  before,  however,  so  the  foreshadowing  of 
what  is  to  come  is  less  complete.  In  reviving,  after 
eight  years  of  passionate  gloom,  a  fresh  gleam  of 
romantic  iQ^Wng,  Pericles  is  perhaps  most  noteworthy. 

In  Timon,  then,  we  have  the  definite  close  of  the 
period  of  passionate  gloom,  —  a  mood  of  which  in 
Coriolanus  we  observed  traces  of  exhaustion.  In 
Timon,  too,  we  have  such  paralysis  of  creative  power 
as  normally  belongs  to  a  period  of  artistic  transition. 
In  Pericles,  we  have  the  feeble,  experimental  begin- 
ning of  Shakspcre's  final  period.  During  this  period, 
though  it  is  short  and  its  production  less  ideally  fin- 
ished than  that  of  either  the  artistic  period   or  the 

i  Cf.  C.  o/E.  I.  i.  63  seq. ;   T.  N.  I.  ii  ;  Per   III.  i.  ;   Temp.  I.  i. 

23 


354  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

passionate,  we  shall  find  something  like  a  fusion,  in 
lifelong  romances,  of  all  the  moods  which  have  pre- 
ceded, —  of  the  darliness  of  tragedy,  the  gayety  of 
comedy,  the  serenity  of  romance.  Though  of  little 
intrinsic  worth,  then,  Timon  and  Pericles^  considered 
in  relation  to  Shakspere's  development,  may  be 
regarded  as  deeply  significant. 


Xi 


THE  PLAYS  OF    SHAKSPERE    FROM  CYMBELINE 
TO   HENRY    VIII 


While  by  common  consent,  Cymbeline,  the  Tempest^ 
and  the  Winter  s  Tale  are  thought  to  have  been  writ- 
ten after  the  plays  we  have  already  considered,  and 
before  Henry  VIII.,  there  is  nothing  but  verse-tests  to 
fix  their  order.  The  order  in  which  we  shall  consider 
them,  then,  is  little  better  than  arbitrary.  Any  line 
of  development  which  we  may  be  tempted  to  trace 
within  the  series  must  be  even  more  conjectural  than 
usual.  Keeping  this  in  mind,  however,  we  may  sug- 
gestively compare  these  plays  with  each  other  ;  and, 
with  fair  confidence  in  our  chronology,  we  may  com- 
pare them  with  anything  which  we  have  considered 
hitherto. 

II.  Cymbeline. 

[Cymbeline  is  first  mentioned  in  the  note-book  of  Dr.  Forman.  His 
note  about  it  is  undated,  hut  as  his  note  of  Macb<th  is  dateii  April  20th, 

1610,  and  that  of  the  Winter's  Tale  is  dated  May  15th,  1611,it  prohaldy 
belongs  to  about  the  same  period.     As  Forman  died  in  September, 

1611,  that  year  is  the  latest   possible  for  his  note.     CymMine  was 
entered  in  1623,  and  published  in  the  folio 

The  historical  parts  of  Cymbeline  are  based  on  Holinshed ;  the  story 
of  Imogen,  including  both  the  trunk-scene  and  the  disguise,  is  based  on 


366  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

a  story  in  the  Decameron,  of  which  no  English  version  is  known  to  have 
existed  before  1 620  -,  the  death-like  sleep  of  Imogen,  so  obviously  like 
Juliet's,  is  also  like  a  familiar  German  story  In  general,  perhaps,  the 
resemblance  of  incidents  in  Cymb  ii  .e  to  incidents  in  Shakspere's  ear- 
lier plays  is  more  noteworthy  than  the  relation  of  either  to  their  actual 
sources. 

By  verse-tests  Cymbeline  is  placed  between  Coriolanus  and  tne  Tem- 
pest. It  is  generally  assigned  to  1609  or  1610;  but  Mr.  Fleay  thinks 
that  certain  parts  of  it  were  written  as  early  as  1606,  when  Shakspere 
was  engaged  in  extracting  from  Holinshed  material  for  King  Lear  and 
Macbeth.^  / 

A  hasty  critic  lately  said  that  Cymbeline  sounds  as 
if  Browning  had  written  it.  Though  crude,  the  re- 
mark is  suggestive.  Tiie  style  of  Cymbeline  has  at 
least  two  traits  really  like  Browning's :  the  rhythm  of 
the  lines  is  often  hard  to  catch  ;  and  the  thought  often 
becomes  so  intricate  that,  without  real  obscurity,  it  is 
hard  to  follow.  Take,  for  example,  the  opening  of  the 
third  scene  of  the  first  act,  a  conversation  between 
Imogen  and  Pisanio  :  — 


'O'' 


"  Imo.  I  would  thou  grew'st  unto  the  shores  o'  the  haven, 
And  question'dst  every  sail  :  if  he  should  write 
And  I  not  have  it,  't  were  a  paper  lost 
As  offer'd  mercy  is.     What  was  the  last 
That  he  spake  to  thee  ? 

Pis.  It  was  his  queen,  his  queen ! 

Imo.  Then  waved  his  handkerchief? 

Pis.  And  kiss'd  it,  madam. 

Imo.  Senseless  linen!  happier  therein  than  II 
And  that  was  all  ? 

Pis.  No,  madam ;  for  so  long 

As  he  could  make  me  with  this  eye  or  ear 
Distinguish  him  from  others,  he  did  keep 
The  deck,  with  glove,  or  hat,  or  handkerchief. 


CYMBELINE  3o  / 

Still  wavinf^,  as  the  fits  and  stire  of 's  mind 
Could  best  express  how  alow  his  soul  sail'd  on. 
How  swift  his  ship. 

Imo.  Thou  shouldst  have  made  him 

As  little  as  a  crow,  or  less,  ere  left 
To  after-eye  him. 

Pis.  Madam,  so  I  did.* 

This  passage  is  enough  to  illustrate  the  peculiar 
metrical  structure  of  Cymheline.  Endstopped  lines 
are  so  deliberately  avoided  that  one  feels  a  sense  of 
relief  when  a  speech  and  a  line  end  together.  Such  a 
phrase  as 

"  How  slow  his  soul  sail'd  on,  how  swift  his  ship  " 
is  deliberately  made,  not  a  single  line,  but  two  half- 
lines.  Several  times,  in  the  broken  dialogue,  one  has 
literally  to  count  the  syllables  before  the  metrical 
regularity  of  the  verse  appears.  The  meaning,  too, 
is  often  so  compactly  expressed  that  to  catch  it  one 
must  pause  and  study.  Clearly  this  puzzling  style  is 
decadent ;  the  distinction  between  verse  and  prose  is 
breaking  down.  Again,  take  this  passage  from  tlie 
scene  when  Imogen  receives  the  letter  of  Posthumus 
bidding  her  meet  him  at  Milford  :  ^  — 

"  Then,  true  Pisanio,  — 
Who  long'st,  like  me,  to  see  thy  lord;  who  long'st,  — 
O,  let  me  bate,  —  but  not  like  nie  —  yet  long'st, 
But  in  a  fainter  kind:  —  0,  not  like  me; 
For  mine  's  beyond  beyond  —  say,  and  speak  thick; 
Love's  counsellor  should  fdl  the  bores  of  hearing 
To  the  smothering  of  the  sense  —  how  far  it  \» 
To  this  same  blessed  Milford." 

1  IIL  ii.  53-61. 


358  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

Here  the  actual  sentence  is  only  "  Pisanio  .  .  .  say 
.  .  .  how  far  it  is  to  .  .  .  Milford."  Nothing  but  the 
most  skilful  elocution,  however,  could  possibly  make 
clear  to  a  casual  hearer  the  broken,  parenthetic  style. 
The  speeches  of  lachimo  in  the  last  act^  show  the 
same  trait  more  extravagantly  still.  Altogether,  the 
style  of  Cymheline  probably  demands  closer  attention 
than  that  of  any  other  work  of  Shakspere. 

This  almost  perverse  complexity  of  Cymheline  is 
not  confined  to  details  of  style.  To  understand  the 
structure  of  the  play  you  must  give  it  preposterous 
attention.  Until  the  very  last  scene,  the  remarkably 
involved  story  tangles  itself  in  a  way  which  is  utterly 
bewildering.  At  any  given  point,  overwhelmed  with 
a  mass  of  facts  presented  pell-mell,  you  are  apt  to  find 
that  you  have  quite  forgotten  something  important. 
Coming  after  such  confusion,  the  last  scene  of  Cymhe- 
line is  among  the  most  notable  bits  of  dramatic  con- 
struction anywhere.  The  more  one  studies  it,  the 
more  one  is  astonished  at  the  ingenuity  with  which 
denouement  follows  denouement.  Nowhere  else  in 
Shakspere,  certainly,  is  there  anything  like  so  elabo- 
rate an  untying  of  knots  which  seem  purposely  made 
intricate  to  prepare  for  this  final  situation.  Situa- 
tion, however,  is  an  inadequate  word.  Into  485  lines 
Shakspere  has  crowded  some  two  dozen  situations  any 
one  of  which  would  probably  have  been  strong  enough 
to  carry  a  whole  act. 

An  analysis  of  these  is  perhaps  worth  while.     The 

1  V.  V.  153  aeq. 


CYMBELIXE  359 

scene  opens  with  the  triumplial  entrance  of  Cymbe- 
lino,^  who  proceeds  to  knight  his  heroic  sons  ^  — 
neither  side  suspecting  the  rehition.  His  triumph  is 
interrupted  by  news  of  the  queen's  dcath,^  and  of  her 
villainy.^  Before  this  can  much  upset  Cymbeline, 
however,  the  captives  are  brought  in,^  and  the  denoue- 
ments are  fully  prepared  for.  To  realize  what  they 
are,  we  may  remind  ourselves  that  we  now  have  on 
the  stage  not  only  the  mutually  unknown  father  and 
sons,  but  also  the  following  personages  whose  identity 
is  more  or  less  confused  :  Imogen,  disguised  as  a 
youth,  is  known  to  be  herself  only  by  Pisanio,  but  is 
known  to  her  brothers  —  whom  she  does  not  suspect 
to  be  her  brothers  —  as  the  boy  Fidele,  whom  they 
believe  dead.  Belarius  and  Posthumus,  each  in  dis- 
guise, are  known  to  nobody.  lachimo  is  present 
undisguised  ;  but  his  villainy  is  known  only  to  Imo- 
gen, and  not  wholly  to  her.  Meanwhile,  nobody  but 
the  sons  of  Cymbeline  knows  that  Cloten  has  been 
killed.  One's  brain  fairly  swims.  The  action  begins 
by  Lucius,  the  Roman  general,  begging  the  life  of 
Imogen,  whom  he  believes  to  be  a  boy  in  his  service.^ 
This  boon  granted,  Imogen,  instead  of  showing  grati- 
tude to  Lucius,  turns  away  from  him,  with  apparent 
heartlcssness.'  Ffcr  real  object,  however,  is  to  expose 
the  villain  lachimo,^ —  a  matter  which  so  fills  her  mind 
that  she  has  no  eyes  for  her  brothers,  who  half  recog- 


1  L.  I. 

«  L.  20. 

«  L.  27. 

*  L.  37. 

»  L.  69. 

«  L.  83. 

'  L.  102. 

«  L.  130. 

360  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

nize  her  as  Fidele.^  lachimo,  caught  with  the  ring 
of  Posthumus  on  his  finger,  now  confesses  his  villainy .^ 
Thereupon  Posthumus,  at  last  enlightened,  and  believ- 
ing that  Imogen  has  been  killed  by  his  command, 
reveals  himself  in  an  agony  of  rage.^  Imogen  inter- 
rupts him,  and  he,  believing  her  an  officious  boy, 
strikes  her  down.*  Pisanio  then  reveals  her  iden- 
tity ;  ^  and  in  telling  her  story  reveals  also  circum- 
stances which  prove  her  identity  witli  the  boy  Fidele.® 
Thus  the  interest  of  disguised  Belarius,  Arviragus, 
and  Guiderius  is  thoroughly  aroused ;  and  when 
Pisanio  goes  on  to  expose  the  wicked  purposes  of 
Cloten,  who  is  missing,  Guiderius  declares  himself 
Cloten's  slayer."  Thereupon  Cymbeline,  who  has  just 
knighted  him,  feels  bound  to  condemn  him  to  death.^ 
The  execution  of  this  sentence  is  interrupted  by 
Belarius,  who  is  presently  condemned  too.*  He 
thereupon  reveals  the  identity  of  the  sons  of  Cymbe- 
line ^^  and  his  own  ;  and  his  statements  are  confirmed 
by  conventional  stage  birth-marks."  In  the  general 
thanksgiving  which  follows,  Posthumus  reveals  him- 
self as  the  missing  hero  of  the  battle. ^^  lachimo  con- 
firms him ;  ^^  and  is  thereupon  pardoned.^*  Then  the 
soothsayer  expounds  how  all  this  solves  the  mysteri- 
ous riddle,^^  peace  is  proclaimed, ^^  and,  in  some  savor 
of  anticlimax,  everybody  is  happy. 

1  L.  120.  *-'  L.  153.  «  L.  209.  ♦  L.  229. 

»  L.  231.  6  L,  260.  T  L.  287.  »  L.  299. 

•  L.  310.  1"  L.  330.  11  L.  363.  "  L.  407. 

WL.  412.  "L.  417.  15  L.  435.  "  L.  4.'>9. 


CYMBELINE  361 

In  tliis  dmotiement,  we  have  specified  twenty-four 
distinct  stage  situations.  Over-clal)orate  as  this  is, — 
and  tautologous,  too,  for  the  audience  already  knows 
pretty  much  all  tiiat  is  revealed,  —  it  is  such  a  feat  of 
technical  stage-craft  us  can  be  appreciated  only  by 
those  who  have  tried  to  manage  even  a  single  situation 
as  strong  as  the  average  of  these.  This  last  scene  of 
Cymheline^  then,  which  demonstrates  the  deliberate 
nature  of  all  the  preceding  confusion,  is  very  reniaik- 
able.  Without  yielding  to  fantastic  temptation,  we 
may  assert  that,  whatever  the  actual  history  of  its 
composition,  it  is  just  such  a  deliberate  feat  of  tecli- 
nical  skill  as  on  general  principles  we  might  expect 
from  a  great  artist,  stirred  to  tremendous  effort  by  the 
stinging  consciousness  of  creative  lethargy  ;  and  crea- 
tive lethargy  seemed  the  only  explanation  of  Timon 
and  Pericles. 

In  this  respect,  the  last  scene  of  Cymbeline  proves 
typical  of  the  whole  play.  From  beginning  to  end, 
whatever  its  actual  history,  the  play  is  certainly  sucli 
as  we  might  expect  from  an  artist  who,  in  spite  of 
declining  power,  was  determined  to  assert  that  he 
could  still  do  better  than  ever.  Thus  viewed,  if  hardly 
otlierwise,  all  its  perversities  become  normal. 

Not  the  least  normal  thing  about  the  play,  too,  is  the 
material  of  which  its  bewildering  plot  is  composed. 
Very  slight  examination  will  show  that  Ci/mbeline  is 
a  tissue  of  motives,  situations,  and  characters  which 
in  the  earlier  work  of  Shaksj)ere  proved  theatrically 
elTective.     There  is  enoujih  confusion  of  idcntitv  for 


362  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

a  dozen  of  the  early  comedies  ;  and  the  disguised 
characters  are  headed,  as  of  old,  by  the  familiar  heroine 
in  hose  and  doublet.  Posthumus,  lachimo,  and  Cloten 
revive  the  second  comic  motive  —  later  a  tragic  one 
—  of  self-deception.  At  least  in  the  matter  of  jeal- 
ousy and  villainy,  too,  Posthumus  and  lachimo  recall 
Othello  and  lago.  In  the  potion  and  the  death-like 
sleep  of  Imogen,  we  have  again  the  death-like  sleep  of 
Juliet.  In  the  villainous  queen,  we  have  another 
woman,  faintly  recalling  both  Lady  Macbeth  and  the 
daughters  of  King  Lear.  In  the  balancing  of  this  figure 
by  the  pure  one  of  Imogen,  we  have  a  suggestion  of 
Cordelia's  dramatic  value.  And  so  on.  If,  in  some 
fantastic  moment,  we  could  imagine  that  Shakspere, 
like  Wagner,  had  written  music-dramas,  giving  to 
each  character,  each  situation,  each  mood,  its  own 
musical  motive,  we  should  find  in  Cymheline  hardly 
any  new  strain. 

The  symphonic  harmonies  in  which  the  old  strains 
combined,  however,  would  themselves  seem  new ;  for 
the  mood  of  Cymheline  has  a  quality  which,  except  in 
feebly  tentative  Pericles,  we  have  not  found  before. 
Cymheline  leads  its  characters  through  experiences 
which  have  all  the  gloom  of  tragedy  ;  but  the  inexo- 
rable fate  of  tragedy  is  here  no  longer,  and  ultimately 
all  emerge  into  a  region  of  romantic  serenity.  In 
Cymheline,  men  wait ;  and  in  spite  of  their  errors  and 
their  follies,  all  at  last  goes  well. 

Looking  back  at  the  plays  we  have  considered,  only 
one  appears  to  have  been  so  completely  recapitulatory 


CYMBELINE  363 

as  Cymheline  ;  this  is  Twelfth  Night.  In  almost  every 
other  respect,  however,  the  effects  of  these  two  plays 
diiYer.  Among  their  many  differences  none  perhaps 
is  more  marked  than  their  comparative  relations  to 
the  older  works  which  they  recapitulate.  In  Twelfth 
Nirjht^  the  old  material  is  almost  always  presented 
more  eflfectively  than  before  ;  in  Cymheline,  it  is  almost 
always  less  satisfactorily  handled.  To  a  reader,  and 
still  more  to  an  enthusiastic  student,  Cymbeline  has 
the  fascinating  trait  of  at  once  demanding  and  reward- 
ing study.  On  the  stage,  however,  compared  with  the 
best  of  Shakspere's  earlier  plays,  it  is  tiresome.  For 
this  there  are  two  reasons  :  it  contains  too  much,  — 
its  complexity  of  both  substance  and  style  overcrowds 
it  throughout;  and,  with  all  its  power,  it  lacks  not 
only  the  simplicity  of  greatness,  but  also  the  ease  of 
spontaneous  imagination.  It  has  amazing  cunningness 
of  plot ;  its  characters  are  individually  constructed  ; 
its  atmosphere  is  varied  and  sometimes  —  particularly 
in  the  mountain  scenes  —  plausible  ;  its  style  abounds 
in  final  phrases.  Throughout,  however,  it  is  laborious. 
Just  as  in  Twelfth  Night,  for  all  its  recapitulation,  one 
feels  constant  spontaneity,  so  in  every  line  of  Cymheline 
one  is  somehow  aware  of  Titanic  effort. 

In  brief,  then,  Cymheline  seems  the  work  of  a 
consciously  older  man  than  the  Shakspere  whom  we 
have  known.  As  such,  it  takes  a  distinct  place  in 
our  study.  In  thus  placing  it,  to  be  sure,  we  must 
guard  against  certainty.  At  best,  our  results  must  be 
conjectural ;  and  we  have  no  external  evidence  to  con- 


364  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

firm  us.  Always  remembering  that  we  may  not  assert 
our  notions  true,  however,  we  are  free  to  state  and  to 
believe  them. 

In  Timon  and  in  Pericles  we  saw  reason  to  believe 
that  Shakspere's  creative  power  had  lapsed.  Any 
courageous  artist,  thus  placed,  would  be  stirred  by 
consciousness  of  this  lapse  to  an  effort  hitherto  un- 
approached.  We  may  imagine  Shakspere,  then,  with 
disdainful  technical  mastery  of  stage-craft  and  of 
style,  sweeping  together  all  manner  of  old  material 
which  had  proved  itself  effective.  We  may  imagine 
him  combining  this  in  a  new  form,  —  more  compre- 
hensive, more  varied,  more  intricately  skilful,  and  in 
the  ultimate  sweetness  of  its  romantic  harmony  more 
significant  than  any  form  in  which  he  had  previously 
used  its  components.  The  result  we  may  imagine  to 
be  Cymheline.  Though  in  Cymheline,  however,  Shaks- 
pere's power,  compared  with  any  other  man's,  remain 
supreme,  it  does  not,  for  all  his  pains,  rise  to  its  own 
highest  level.  Vast  though  it  be,  it  cannot  conceal  the 
effort  at  last  involved  in  its  exertion.  In  this  effort, 
one  feels  the  absence  of  his  old  spontaneity.  Here, 
if  nowhere  else,  Cymheline  reveals  unmistakable  symp- 
toms of  creative  decadence. 


THE   TEMPEST  36i 


III.     The  Tempest. 

[The  Tempest  was  araoug  the  plays  paid  for,  as  haviug  been  played 
at  court,  on  May  20th,  1613.  It  wa.s  entered  in  1623,  and  puhlisheti 
in  the  folio.  In  that  volume  it  is  the  opening  play,  —  a  fact  which  ha? 
given  rise  to  a  comically  general  impression  that  it  was  tiie  first  whicii 
bliakspere  wrote. 

No  unmistakahle  source  has  been  discovered.  Apparently,  however, 
the  Tempest  was  in  some  degree  affected  by  A  Discovery  of  the  Bermu- 
das, otherwise  called  the  Isle  of  Devils ;  by  Sir  Thomas  Gates,  Sir 
George  Somers,  and  Captain  Newport,  with  divers  others,  which  waa 
published  in  the  autumn  of  1610.  The  Utopian  scheme  of  Gonzalo  — 
II.  i.  147,  seq. — seems  to  be  taken  from  Florio's  Montaigne. 

Verse-tests  place  the  Tempest  between  Cymbeline  and  the  Winter's 
Tale.     It  is  generally  assigned  conjecturally  to  1610.] 

In  total  effect,  the  Tempest  is  unique.  A  comparison 
of  its  incidents  with  the  records  of  EHzabethan  voN'ages 
will  show  one  reason  why.  These  voyages  —  of  which 
Sir  Walter  Ralegh's  Discovery  of  Guiana  is  a  good 
example  —  reveal  a  state  of  things  unprecedented  in 
human  experience,  and  never  to  be  repeated.  The 
general  outline  of  the  earth  was  at  last  known  to  everv- 
body  ;  the  limits  of  the  physical  world  had  finally  been 
ascertained.  At  the  same  time,  this  world  was  almost 
totally  unexplored  ;  what  it  might  contain  nobody 
knew ;  behind  every  newly  discovered  coast  might 
actually  lurk  Utopia  or  the  fountain  of  eternal  youth  ; 
for  the  moment  such  an  isle  as  Prospero's  was  cred- 
ible. The  only  place  where  it  could  possibly  be,  how- 
ever, was  in  the  Western  Seas.  The  Mediterranean 
was  as  well  known  as  it  is  to-dav  ;  and  Tunis  was  what 


366  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

it  remained  until  our  own  century,  —  a  notorious  nest 
of  Barbary  pirates.  While  the  magic  isle,  then,  vrhich 
now  seems  the  most  palpable  impossibility  of  the  Tem- 
pest, was  not  so  in  the  days  of  Elizabeth,  what  now 
seem  the  credible  parts  of  the  play  —  the  allusions  to 
Milan,  Naples,  and  Tunis  —  really  put  the  action  be- 
yond the  bounds  of  possibility.  In  laying  his  magic 
scene  between  two  such  familiar  regions  as  Tunis 
and  Naples,  in  making  the  distance  between  them 
oceanic,  and  in  serenely  disregarding  the  notorious 
character  of  Tunis,  Shakspere  seems  deliberately  to 
have  idealized  such  facts  as  the  records  of  the  voyages 
gave  him.  His  real  topic  was  human  life,  in  the 
broadest  sense  ;  but  just  as  he  idealized  the  records  of 
the  voyages,  he  idealized  everything.  In  the  Tempest, 
more  than  anywhere  else,  his  work  seems  deliberately 
removed  from  reality. 

In  the  matters  here  idealized,  there  is  much  trace  of 
such  formerly  effective  material  as  we  found  more 
palpably  in  Cymheline.  The  tit-for-tat  of  the  ship- 
wrecked courtiers  ^  revives  in  some  degree  the  ingen- 
ious verbal  pleasantry  which  began  in  the  plays  of  Lyly 
and  reached  its  highest  point  in  Much  Ado  About 
Nothing.  Stephano  and  Trinculo,  the  drunken  comic 
personages,  similarly  revive  Sir  Toby  Belcli  and  Fal- 
staff  and  the  Fools,  mingling  with  all  these  a  sugges- 
tion of  the  old  distrust  of  democracy.  The  story  of 
Prospero  and  his  brother  is  somewhat  akin  to  situa- 
tions in  As  You  Like  It,  and  still  more  to  situations 

1  II.  i. 


THE  TEMPEST  367 

in  Hamlet.  The  idyllic  and  the  magic  scenes  recall 
the  mood  of  As  You  Like  It.,  and  more  still  that  of 
the  Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  Ariel  revives  the 
child-actors,  who  must  have  been  effective  not  only  in 
the  fairy  poem,  but  in  Richard  HI.  and  in  King  John 
and  in  Coriolanus}  The  wreck  reminds  one  of  Peri- 
cles,oi  Tivelfth  Night,  and  of  the  Comedy  of  Errors  ;^ 
the  abandoned  child  is  akin  to  Marina.  And  so  on. 
In  the  Tempest,  however,  these  old  motives  are  all 
idealized,  refined,  subtly  varied ;  they  do  not,  as  in 
Cymheline,  reveal  themselves  at  once. 

Another  cause  of  the  unique  individuality  of  the 
Tempest,  however,  is  very  palpable.  This  is  a  tech- 
nical trait  which  seems  wholly  new.  In  the  Comedy 
of  Errors,  to  be  sure,  Shakspere  did  something  like 
what  he  has  done  here  ;  when  translating  his  classic 
motive  into  the  terms  of  the  Elizabethan  theatre,  he 
so  far  adhered  to  the  classic  model  as  to  preserve  unity 
of  time  and  action,  and  not  to  stray  far  from  unity  of 
place.^  In  the  Tempest,  however,  there  is  no  sugges- 
tion of  a  classic  motive  ;  no  work  in  English  Literature 
is  more  romantic ;  yet,  at  the  same  time,  something 
very  like  the  pseudo-classical  unities  is  maintained 
throughout.  The  play  would  act  in  between  two  and 
three  hours ;  and  between  two  and  three  hours  would 
probably  include  everything  which  happens  ;  the  time  of 
the  Tempest,  then,  is  actual.  The  action,  too,  is  almost 
continuous ;  and  while  the  scene  shifts  a  little,  from 

1  See  pp.  113,  141 ;  and  cf.  Coriolanus,  V.  iii.  127. 
«  See  pp.  207,  347.  »  See  p.  91. 


368  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

one  part  of  the  island  to  another,  it  remains  virtually 
unchanged,  practically  observing  also  the  unity  of 
place.  As  a  technical  feat,  we  have  found  nothing 
comparable  to  this,  unless  it  be  the  last  scene  of  Cym- 
heline.  There  Shakspore  packed  into  less  than  five 
hundred  lines  a  denouement  of  unparalleled,  deliberate 
complexity,  involving  some  two  dozen  distinct  stage 
situations.  In  the  Tempest^  on  the  other  hand,  he 
expands  his  denouement  into  a  whole  five-act  play. 

This  feat  involves  a  degree  of  pains  escaped  by 
whoever  should  write  in  free  romantic  form.  Before 
the  unities  can  be  observed,  the  material  in  hand  must 
be  not  only  thoroughly  collected,  but  thoroughly 
digested.  Plot,  character,  atmosphere,  and  style,  ac- 
cordingly, must  be  pretty  thoroughly  fused  ;  as  is  the 
case  with  the  Tempest,  however,  they  need  not  be  fused 
indistinguishably.  The  plot,  in  substance  such  a  life- 
long romance  as  the  plots  of  Cymheline  and  of  Pericles, 
is  put  together  with  great  firmness.  The  opening 
scene  of  shipwreck  is  just  such  an  adaptation  of  the 
old  induction  as  we  found  in  As  You  Like  It,  in  the 
Merchant  of  Venice,  and  in  the  Midsummer  Nighfs 
Bream}  Alone  of  the  scenes  in  the  Teinpest,  it  is 
minutely  true  to  life.  What  happens  is  just  what 
might  have  happened  to  any  company  of  Elizabethan 
seamen  whom  you  had  seen  sail  from  Plymouth  or 
Bristol.  For  all  any  Elizabethan  could  tell,  too,  these 
very  seamen,  bound  no  one  knew  quite  whither  in  the 
Western  Seas,  might  actually  split  on  unknown  magic 

1  See  pp.  110,  146,  159. 


THK   TEMPEST  369 

islands.  No  introduction  to  such  matter  as  was 
comin!^  in  the  Tempest^  then,  could  have  been  more 
skilfully  ])lausiblc  ;  and  from  the  moment  when  tlie 
castaways  set  foot  on  the  magic  island,  all  moves 
straight  forward,  dominated  by  the  deliberately  provi- 
dential sjjirit  of  Prosper©.  This  deliberately  provi- 
dential spirit  typifies  tiie  treatment  of  character 
throughout  the  Tempest.  Individual  though  almost 
every  personage  be,  all  are  broadly  typical,  too.  \\\ 
this  respect  the  Tempest  again  recalls  the  Midsummer 
Niyld's  Dream.  There,  however,  the  characters  were 
hardly  individual  at  all,  but  were  rather  collected  in 
three  distinctly  typical  groups ;  ^  here,  on  the  other 
hand,  individualization  is  probably  carried  as  far  as 
is  consistent  with  the  delicately  idealized  atmosphere. 
This  atmosphere,  as  remote  from  actuality  as  that  of 
the  Midsummer  Night's  Bream.,  is  distinct ;  its  sus- 
tained, exquisite  dreaminess  never  becomes  palpable 
unreality.  We  are  in  another  world  than  our  own, 
but  a  world  which  is  only  just  beyond  the  limits  of 
the  world  we  all  know.  On  the  old  coins  of  Spain 
were  stamped  the  pillars  of  Hercules,  with  the  legend 
Plus  ultra.,  —  More  is  beyond.  The  mood  into  which 
the  Plus  idtra  of  old  Spain  leads  one  is  such  as  per- 
vades the  Tempest.  After  all,  these  strange  events 
and  beings  are  not  a  mere  mist  of  fantasy ;  they  are 
rather  a  vision  of  something  onlv  iust  bevond  our 
ken.  Even  though  their  j)lace  be  nowhere  on  earth, 
they  might  well  be  somewhere  within  our  reach  ;  and 

1  See  p.  1 1 1 
2^  ^ 


370  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

if  they  were,  very  surely  the  language  there  spoken 
would  be  the  lovely  poetry  of  the  Tempest. 

At  first  reading,  this  style  seems  very  differ- 
ent from  that  of  Cymheline ;  but  a  very  little  com- 
parison will  show  that  the  difference  is  really  less 
marked  than  the  similarity.  Take  Prospero's  most 
familiar  speech  :  ^  — 

"  Our  revels  now  are  ended      These  our  actors, 
As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 
Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air : 
And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision, 
The  cloud-capp'd  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve 
And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded, 
Leave  not  a  rack  behind.     We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  on,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep." 

Compare  with  those  last  three  lines  the  lines  from 
Cymheline  at  which  we  first  glanced :  ^  — 

"  He  did  keep 
The  deck,  with  glove,  or  hat,  or  handkerchief. 
Still  waving,  as  the  fits  and  stirs  of 's  mind 
Could  but  express  how  slow  his  soul  suil'd  on, 
How  swift  his  ship." 

For  all  the  finer  music  of  the  Tempest,  the  metrical 
structure  of  the  two  passages  is  the  same.  Again, 
compare  with  Imogen's  elaborately  parenthesized  in- 
quirjj  —  "Pisanio  .  .  .  say  .  .  .  how  far  it  is  to  .  .  . 
Milford,"  ^  —  Prospero's  story  of  Antonio's  treachery ;  * 

1  IV.  i.  148.  *  L  iii.  10. 

«  See  p.  357.  *  I.  ii.  66. 


THE  TEMPP:ST  371 

"Pros.     My  brother  and  thy  uncle,  call'd  Antonio — 

I  pray  thee  mark  me  —  that  a  brother  should 

Be  so  perlidious!  —  he  whom  next  thyself 

Of  all  the  world  I  loved  and  to  him  put 

The  manage  of  my  state  ;  as  at  that  time 

Through  all  the  signories  it  was  the  first 

And  Prospero  the  prime  duke,  being  so  reputed 

In  dignity,  and  for  the  liberal  arts 

Without  a  parallel ;  those  being  all  my  study, 

The  government  I  cast  upon  my  brother 

And  to  my  state  grew  stranger,  being  transported 

And  rapt  in  secret  studies.     Thy  false  uncle  — 

Dost  thou  attend  me  ? 

Mir.  Sir,  most  heedfully. 

Pros.     Being  once  perfected  how  to  grant  suits. 
How  to  deny  them,  who  to  advance  and  who 
To  trash  for  over-topping,  new  created 
The  creatures  that  were  mine,  I  say,  or  changed  'em, 
Or  else  new  form'd  'em,"  etc. 

Leaving  to  those  who  love  grammar  the  task  of 
parsing  these  parenthetic  excursions,  we  may  content 
ourselves  with  remarking  that  the  simple  sentence 
which  underlies  this  whole  structure  is  no  more  than 
this :"  My  brother  .  .  .  Antonio  .  .  .  new-created  the 
creatures  that  were  mine."  If  more  grammaticallv 
bewildering  than  the  over-excited  speech  of  Imogen, 
this  speech  of  Prospero,  to  be  sure,  is  more  agreeable 
to  the  ear.  In  structure,  however,  the  two  are  almost 
identical.  These  examples  typify  the  style  of  both 
plays  throughout.  Fundamentally  similar,  they  differ 
remarkably  in  effect ;  for  in  general,  wliile  the  style 
of  Cymheline  is  harsh,  cramped,  obscure,  the  style  of 
the    Tempest  is  sustained,  lucid,  and  easy.      In  the 


372  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

Tempest,  we  may  say,  the  style  is  not  only  mastered, 
but  it  is  so  simplified  as  really  to  possess  the  simplicity 
of  greatness. 

The  Tempest,  then,  is  a  very  great,  very  beautiful 
poem.  As  a  poem  one  can  hardly  love  it  or  admire  it 
too  much.  As  a  play,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  neither 
great  nor  effective.  The  reason  is  not  far  to  seek  : 
its  motive  is  not  primarily  dramatic ;  the  mood  it 
would  express  is  not  that  of  a  })laywright,  but  rather 
that  of  an  allegorist  or  a  philosoplier. 

The  providential  character  of  Prospero,  for  exam- 
ple, is  a  commonplace;  nothing  could  more  distinctly 
mark  the  divergence  of  the  Tempest  from  the  fate- 
ridden  tragedies  than  liis  serene  mastery  both  of 
emotion  and  of  superhuman  things,  by  mere  force  of 
intellect,  A  commonplace,  too,  is  the  fresh  assertion 
in  the  Tempest  of  that  ideal  of  family  reunion  and 
reconciliation  ^  of  which  there  are  traces  in  Coriolanus, 
in  Pericles,  and  in  Cymbeline.  A  commonplace,  as 
well,  is  the  ideal  solution  of  the  troubles  wliich  actual 
life  involves.  In  the  Tempest  there  are  no  such  doubts 
as  Hamlet's  or  Claudio's,  nor  any  sucli  despair  as 
Lear's  or  Macbeth's  :  — 

"  We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  on,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep." 

Not  quite  so  familiar,  perhaps,  but  still  often  remarked, 
is  the  comprehensive,  pro{)hetic  view  of  social  fact, 
typically  set  forth  in  Stephano  and  Trinculo,  and  above 

1  See  pp.  332,  353,  362. 


THE   TEMPEST  373 

:ill  in  Caliban.  The  two  former  sum  up  the  old  dis- 
trust of  the  lower  classes.  They  are  not  a  mob, 
to  be  sure  ;  on  the  magic  island  there  was  no  chance 
for  a  mob  to  breed  ;  in  Stephano  and  Trinculo,  how- 
ever, all  the  folly  and  the  impotence  of  a  mob  are 
incarnate.  With  Caliban  the  case  is  different:  in 
him  there  is  a  perception  of  something  not  hinted 
at  before. 

The  single,  unique  figure  of  Caliban,  in  short,  typifies 
the  whole  history  of  such  world-wide  social  evolution, 
such  permanent  race-conflict,  as  was  only  beginning 
in  Shakspere's  day,  and  as  is  not  ended  in  our  own. 
Civilization,  exploring  and  advancing,  comes  face 
to  face  with  barbarism  and  savagery.  Savage  and 
barbarian  alike  absorb,  not  the  blessings  of  civiliza- 
tion, but  its  vices,  amid  which  their  own  simple  virtues 
are  lost.  Ruin  follows.  To-day  European  civiliza- 
tion has  almost  extirpated  Maoris  and  Hawaiians  and 
Australian  blacks.  At  this  moment  it  is  face  to  face 
with  the  hordes  of  barbarian  Asia  and  savage  Africa. 
Humanity  forbids  the  massacre  of  lower  races ; 
the  equally  noble  instinct  of  race-supremacy  forbids 
any  but  a  suicidally  philanthropic  man  of  European 
blood  to  contemplate  without  almost  equal  horror  the 
thought  of  miscegenation.  When  Caliban  would  pos- 
sess Miranda,  we  torment  Caliban,  but  still  we  feel 
bound  to  preserve  him,  —  which  is  not  good  for  the 
morals  or  the  temper  of  Caliban.  That  savage  figure, 
then,  shows  a  vision  so  prophetic  that  at  least  one 
modern  scholar  has  chosen  to  study  in  Calil)an  the 


374  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

psychology  of  Darwin's  missing  link.  Marvellously 
prophetic  suggestiveness,  however,  is  not  exactly  a 
condition  of  theatrical  effect. 

The  very  complexity,  indeed,  and  the  essential 
abstractness  of  the  endlessly  suggestive,  philosophic 
motive  of  the  Tempest  is  reason  enough  why,  for  all 
its  power  and  beauty,  the  play  should  theatrically 
fail.  Like  Cyynheline^  though  far  less  obtrusively,  it 
contains  too  much.  Like  Cymheline  it  reveals  itself 
at  last  as  a  colossal  experiment,  an  attempt  to 
achieve  an  effect  which,  this  time  at  least,  is  hope- 
lessly beyond  human  power.  Less  palpably  than 
Cymheline^  then,  but  just  as  surely,  the  Tempest 
finally  seems  laborious 

It  distinguishes  itself  from  Ci/mbeline,  of  course,  by 
the  fact  that  its  construction  and  its  style  alike  are 
grandly  simple.  In  this  simplicity,  quite  as  much  as 
in  its  pervading  atmosphere  of  enchantment,  and  in 
its  general  purpose  of  pure  beauty,  it  rather  resembles 
As  You  Like  li,  and  still  more  the  Midsummer  Nighfs 
Dream.  In  final  effect,  however,  it  is  as  far  from 
either  of  them  as  from  Cymheline  itself.  To  a  great 
degree  the  motive  of  As  You  Like  It.,  and  without 
qualification  the  motive  of  the  Midsummer  Nighfs 
Dream  is  purely  to  give  pleasure  ;  whatever  else 
than  pleasure  one  may  find  in  either  of  them  is  inci- 
dental. The  motive  of  the  Tempest,  on  the  other 
hand,  we  have  seen  to  be  philosophic,  or  allegorical, 
or  at  least  something  other  than  purely  artistic.  The 
three  most  familiar  quotations  from  the  three  plays 


THE   TEMPEST  375 

will  clearly  define  them.     Take  Theseus'  great  speech 

in  the  Midsummer  NigWi  Dream :  ^  — 

"  The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling, 
Doth  f:jlance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to  heaven  ; 
And  as  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  tlieni  to  shapes  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name." 

Take   Jaques'    "  Seven    ages  of    Man,"    in   As    You 

Like  It  .'"^  — 

"  All  the  world  's  a  stage, 

And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players : 

They  have  their  exits  and  their  entrances  ; 

And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts, 

His  acts  being  seven  ages  ; " 

and  so  on.     Compare  with  these  the  wonderful  speech 

of  Prospero:^ —  _^-' 

"  And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision, 
The  cloud  capp'd  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve 
And,  like  this  unsubstantial  pageant  faded, 
Leave  not  a  rack  behind.     We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  on,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep." 

The  three  passages  will  show  what  one  means 
who  should  call  the  Midsummer  Nighfs  Dream  spon- 
taneously fantastic,  and  the  Tempest  deliberately 
imaginative. 

This  quality  of  deliberation,  perhaps,  typifies  the 
fatal  trouble.     Creatively  and  technically  powerful  as 

1  V.  i.  12.  2  II.  vii.  139.  »  IV.  i.  151. 


376  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

the  Temj)e8t  is,  —  sustained,  too,  and  simplified,  and 
beautiful, — it  lias  throughout  a  relation  to  real  life 
which  we  cannot  feel  unintentional.  In  a  spontaneous 
work  of  art,  one  feels  that  the  relation  of  its  truth  to 
the  truth  of  life  is  not  intended,  but  is  rather  the  result 
of  the  essential  veracity  of  the  artist's  observation  and 
expression. 1  In  such  an  effect  as  that  of  the  Tempest, 
then,  one  grows  more  and  more  to  feel  that,  for  all  its 
power,  for  all  its  mastery,  for  all  its  beauty,  the  play 
is  really  a  tremendous  effort. 

As  such,  the  Tempest  groups  itself  where  verse-tests 
place  it.  In  something  more  than  mere  form  it  is 
akin  to  Cymheline  and  to  Pericles.  In  these  we  saw 
indications  that  Shakspere's  power  was  waning ;  here 
we  find  them  again.  In  Cymheline  we  found  what 
seemed  a  deliberate  attempt  to  assert  artistic  power  at 
a  moment  when  that  power  was  past  the  spontaneous 
vigor  of  maturity.  Here  we  find  another  such  effort, 
more  potent  still.  Shakspere  not  only  recalls  old 
material,  and  re-composes  it ;  he  digests  his  material 
afresh,  until  at  first  glance  it  seems  new.  He  adds 
material  that  is  really  new,  —  drawing  inspiration  from 
the  voyages  which  at  the  moment  were  opening  a 
world  of  new,  unfathomable  possibility.  All  this,  old 
and  new,  he  suffuses  with  a  single  motive  of  serene, 
dominant  beauty.  In  every  detail  he  composes  his 
work  with  unsurpassed  skill.  His  motive,  however, 
is  not  really  dramatic,  nor  even  purely  artistic ;  it  is 
philosophic,  allegorical,  consciously  and  deliberately 

1  See  pp.  103,  171,397,399. 


THE   WINTER'S   TALE  377 

imaginative.  His  faculty  of  creating  character,  as  dis- 
tinguished from  constructing  it,  is  gone.  All  his  power 
fails  to  make  his  great  poem  spontaneous,  easy,  inevi- 
table. Like  Cyiiiheline,  it  remains  a  Titanic  effort ; 
and,  in  an  artist  like  Shakspere,  effort  implies  creative 
decadence,  —  the  fatal  approach  of  growing  age. 


lY.    The  Winter's  Tale. 

[The  Winter's  Tale  was  seen  by  Dr.  Forman  at  the  Globe  Theatre, 
on  May  15th,  1611.  In  an  official  memorandum  made  in  162.3,  it  is 
described  as  "  formerly  allowed  of  by  Sir  George  Riche."  Though 
Riche  undoubtedly  licen.*ed  play.s  before  August,  1610,  this  was  the 
date  of  his  official  appointment  as  Master  of  the  Revels.  The  play 
was  entered  in  1623,  and  published  in  the  folio. 

The  source  of  the  plot  is  a  novel  by  Robert  Greene,  originally  pub- 
lished in  1588  under  the  title  of  Pandosto,  and  later  republished  as  the 
Histnrie  ofDorasfus  and  Faxcnla. 

Verse-tests  place  the  Winter's  Tale  later  than  Cymbeline  and  the 
Tempest.  Taking  these  in  connection  with  the  records  mentioned 
above,  most  critics  conjecturally  assign  it  to  the  end  of  1610  or  the 
beginning  of  1611.  Mr.  Fleay  is  disposed  to  place  it  a  little  earlier  ; 
probably  before  the  Tempest.] 

The  marked  individuality  of  effect  which  we  ob- 
served in  both  Cymbeline  and  the  Tempest  proved  on 
scrutiny  chiefly  due  to  the  fact  that  the  dramatic 
structure  of  each  involves  a  new  and  bold  technical 
experiment.  In  each  the  experiment  consists  chiefly 
of  a  deliberately  skilful  handling  of  denouement.  In 
Cymbeline,  after  four  and  a  half  acts  of  confusion, 
comes  the  last  scene,  coolly  disentangling  the  confu- 


878  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

sion  by  means  of  four  and  twenty  cumulative  stage 
situations  ;  in  the  Tempest,  with  due  adherence  to  the 
unities  of  time,  of  place,  and  of  action,  the  denouement 
is  expanded  into  five  whole  acts.  In  the  Winter's 
Tale  we  find  an  analogous  individuality  of  effect,  due 
to  a  similar  cause.  Structurally  the  Winter's  Tale  is 
perhaps  the  most  boldly  experimental  of  all.  The  play 
is  frankly  double.  The  first  three  acts  make  a  com- 
plete independent  tragedy,  involving  the  deaths  of 
Mamillius  and  of  Antigonus,  and,  so  far  as  you  can 
tell  for  the  moment,  the  still  more  tragic  end  of  Her- 
mione.  The  last  two  acts  make  a  complete  independent 
comedy,  which,  taking  up  the  story  at  its  most  tragic 
point,  leads  it  to  a  final  denouement  of  reconciliation 
and  romantic  serenity. 

Alike  complete,  the  tragedy  and  the  comedy  are 
quite  as  independent  as  the  separate  plays  in  a  classic 
trilogy  or  in  an  Elizabethan  series  of  chronicle-histo- 
ries. As  we  saw  when  discussing  Julius  Ccesar,  too, 
the  Elizabethan  practice  of  making  consecutive  plays 
on  the  same  subject  was  not  confined  to  chronicle- 
history.  Such  after-plays  of  revenge  as  Chapman's 
Revenge  of  Bussy  d^Ambois  and  Marston's  Antonio^s 
Revenge  we  saw  to  throw  light  on  the  structure  of 
Julius  Ccesar  itself.  Nor  was  such  prolonged  treat- 
ment of  a  subject  confined  to  tragedy ;  in  Dekker's 
Honest  Whore  and  Heywood's  Fair  Maid  of  the  West, 
to  go  no  further,  we  have  elaborate  romantic  comedies 
in  two  parts.  By  its  prolongation  of  popular  stories 
into  more  than  one  performance,  indeed,  the  Eliza- 


THE   WINTER'S   TALE.  379 

betlian  theatre  proves,  as  in  other  aspects,  queerly  like 
the  modern  Chinese  stage.  What  Shakspere  has  done 
in  the  Winter^ s  Tale,  then,  is  to  take  the  plan  of  a 
double  play  —  peculiar  in  itself  for  being  half-tragic 
and  half-comic — and  to  compress  what  would  nor- 
mally have  occupied  two  full  performances  into  the 
limits  of  one.  With  little  alteration  of  the  conven- 
tional proportions  of  a  double  play,  he  completely 
alters  its  dimensions.  With  the  slightest  possible 
departure  from  his  models,  with  characteristic  econ- 
omy of  invention,  he  produces  by  mere  compression  a 
remarkably  novel  effect. 

The  very  fact  of  compression,  however,  naturally 
produces  a  trait  which,  for  tlieatrical  purposes,  is 
unfortunate.  In  both  substance  and  style,  the  Winter's 
Tale  is  overcrowded.  Take,  for  example,  the  passage 
where  Hermione  has  persuaded  Polixenes  to  prolong 
his  visit  and  Leontes  thereupon  becomes  jealous:  ^  — 

"/fer.  What  I  have  I  twice  said  well  ?  when  was  't  before  ? 
I  pritheje  tell  me ;  cram  's  with  praise,  and  make  's 
As  lat  as  tame  things:  one  good  deed  dying  tonguelesa 
Slaughters  a  thousand  waiting  upon  that. 
Our  praises  are  our  wages  :  you  may  ride 's 
With  one  soft  kiss  a  thousand  furlongs  ere 
With  spur  we  heat  an  acre.     But  to  the  goal : 
My  last  good  deed  was  to  entreat  his  stay  : 
What  was  my  first  I  it  has  an  elder  sister. 
Or  I  mistake  you:  0,  would  her  name  were  Grace! 
But  once  before  I  spoke  to  the  purpose  :  when  ? 
Nay,  let  me  have 't ;  I  long. 

^  I.  ii.  90-120. 


380  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

Leon.  Why,  that  was  when 

Three  crabbed  months  had  sour'd  themselves  to  death, 
Ere  I  could  make  thee  open  thy  white  hand 
And  clap  thyself  mv  love :  then  didst  thou  utter 
'  I  am  yovirs  for  ever.' 

Her.  'T  is  grace  indeed. 

Why,  lo  you  now,  I  have  spoke  to  the  purpose  twice  : 
The  one  for  ever  earn'd  a  royal  husband ; 
The  other  for  some  while  a  friend 

Leon.  (Aside)  Too  hot,  too  hotl 

To  mingle  friendship  far  is  mingling  bloods. 
I  have  tremor  cordis  on  me  :  my  heart  dances  ; 
But  not  for  joy ;  not  joy.     This  entertainment 
May  a  free  face  put  on,  derive  a  liberty 
From  heartiness,  from  bounty,  fertile  bosom, 
And  well  become  the  agent ;  't  may,  I  grant ; 
But  to  be  paddling  palms  and  pinching  fingers,* 
As  now  they  are,  and  making  practised  smiles 
As  in  a  looking-glass,  and  then  to  sigh,  as  't  were 
The  mort  o'  the  deer  ;  O,  that  is  entertainment 
My  bosom  likes  not,  nor  my  brows !    Mamillius, 
Art  thou  my  boy  ? " 

Tn  more  ways  than  one  the  passage  is  typical  of  the 
Whiter  s  Tale.  During  less  than  twenty  lines,  to  be- 
gin witli,  Leontes  is  carried  through  an  emotional  ex- 
perience which  ill  the  case  of  Othello  liad  been  prepared 
for  by  above  two  acts,  and  when  it  came  occupied 
nearly  two  hundred  and  fifty  lines.^  Again,  while  in 
Othello  every  one  of  these  lines  is  clear  and  fluent, 
this  passage  from  the  Winter's  Tale  is  botli  obscure 
and  crabbed.  The  verse  is  more  licentiously  free  than 
ever  before,  and  at  the   same  time  overpacked  with 

1  Cf.  Hamlet,  III.  iv.  185.  2  O^Ae//o,  III.  iii.  .35-279. 


THE   WINTER'S  TALE  381 

meaiiiug.  After  Shakspere's  regular  fashion,  too,  this 
scene  from  the  Winters  Tale  proves  both  in  substance, 
and  to  a  less  degree  in  phrase,  reminiscent.  In  all 
these  traits,  which  pervade  the  Winter^s  Tafe,t]\G  play 
resembles  Cymheline  and  the  Tempest  as  clearly  as  it 
resembles  them  in  its  boldly  experimental  structure 
and  its  serenely  romantic  motive. 

The  overcrowding  of  the  style  is  what  most  distin- 
guishes these  three  last  plays  from  what  precede.  In 
Shakspere's  earlier  work,  almost  to  the  end  of  the 
tragic  period,  one  generally  felt  that,  when  composing 
plays,  he  always  endeavored  to  present  his  material, 
however  serious,  in  such  form  as  should  be  acceptable 
to  an  audience.  In  these  last  plays,  one  is  aware  of  a 
radically  different  mood.  The  playwright,  despite  his 
vigorous  technical  experiment,  has  at  last  become  a 
conscious  poet.  He  cares  about  substance  rather  than 
style.  Thoughts  crowd  upon  him.  He  actually  has 
too  much  to  say.  In  his  effort  to  say  it,  he  disdain- 
fully neglects  both  the  amenity  of  regular  form,  and 
the  capacity  of  human  audiences.  The  only  vehicle 
of  expression  at  his  disposal,  meanwhile,  was  the  pub- 
lic stage  ;  and  this  vehicle  his  artistic  purposes  —  now 
rather  intellectual  than  emotional  —  had  finally  out- 
grown. In  the  Winter''s  Tale  this  trait  is  more  ])al- 
pable  than  anywhere  else ;  Shakspere's  style  is  surely 
more  decadent  than  ever  before. 

In  the  Winter's  Tale^  too,  the  old  trait  of  recapitula- 
tion is  quite  as  palpable  as  in  Cymheline.  Shakspero, 
to  be  sure,  keeps  fairly  close  to  Greene's  novel;  lait 


382  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

Greene's  novel  itself  deals  chiefly  with  matters  which 
Shakspere's  earlier  plays  had  proved  effective ;  and 
what  Shakspere  adds  —  Paulina,  for  example,  and 
Autolycus,  and  the  Clown  — is  almost  always  directly 
taken  from  his  old  repertory.  How  recapitulatory  the 
Winter^s  Tale  is,  any  one  can  see.  In  the  tragic  part, 
the  jealousy  of  Leontes,  clearly  akin  to  that  of  Posthu- 
mus,  revives  also  the  jealousy  of  Othello ;  and  at  the 
same  time  dispassionately  revives  a  distinct  phase 
of  such  overwrought  self-deception  and  unbalance  of 
mind  as  pervaded  the  great  tragedies.  Hermione,  in 
her  undeserved  fate,  resembles  Imogen,  and  Desde- 
mona,  and  Hero ;  at  her  trial  she  is  like  Queen 
Katharine.  Paulina,  a  character  introduced  by  Shaks- 
pere, has  obvious  analogies  to  Emilia  in  Othello,  and 
to  Beatrice,  so  far  as  Beatrice  is  concerned  with  the 
troubles  of  Hero.  Mamillius,  like  Ariel  a  child-actor, 
is  like  the  Duke  of  York  in  Richard  III.  and  Prince 
Arthur  in  King  John}  To  pass  to  the  comedy  of 
the  last  two  acts,  the  very  entry  of  Autolycus  is 
reminiscent :  2  — 

"I  have  served  Prince  Florizel  and  in  my  time  wore 
three-pile;  but  now  I  am  out  of  service:  .  .  .  My  traffic  is 
sheets;  when  the  kite  builds,  look  to  lesser  linen.  My 
father  named  me  Autolycus;  who  being,  as  I  am,  littered 
under  Mercury,  was  likewise  a  snapper-up  of  unconsidered 
trifles.  With  die  and  drab  I  purchased  this  caparison,  and 
my  revenue  is  the  silly  cheat.  Gallows  and  knock  are  too 
powerful  on  the  highway  :  beating  and  hanging  are  terrors 
to  me :  for  the  life  to  come,  I  sleep  out  the  thought  of  it." 
1   See  p.  367.  ^  jy  j;;   13-32. 


THE   WINTER'S   TALE  383 

Here,  in  the  cramped  dialect  of  this  period,  is  a 
plain  statement  of  such  a  situation  as  Falstaff's 
when  the  Prince  had  discarded  him.  The  relations 
of  Polixenes  to  Florizel  are  another  clear  reminis- 
cence of  Henry  IV.  Again,  the  Shepherd  and  the 
Clown  revive  not  only  the  conventional  boors  of  the 
early  comedy,^  but  the  relations  between  Falstaff  and 
Shallow,^  a  bit  of  the  absurdity  of  Sir  Andrew  Ague- 
cheek,  and  incidentally  the  old  distrust  of  democracy. 
The  recovery  of  Hermione  resembles  those  of  -Emilia 
in  the  Comedy  of  Errors^  of  Hero  in  Much  Ado  About 
Nothing^  and  of  Thaisa  in  Pericles.^  In  the  great  pas- 
toral scene*  there  is  not  only  abundant  confusion  of 
identity  —  the  chief  trait  of  all  the  early  comedies  — 
but  an  atmosphere  which  recalls  the  open-air  scenes  of 
Love's  Labour 's  Lost,  of  the  Midsummer  Nights  Dream, 
of  the  last  act  of  the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  and  of 
As  You  Like  It. 

All  but  the  last  of  these  reminiscences  call  to  mind 
passages  which,  at  least  in  vitality,  are  better  than 
those  in  the  Winter''s  Tale.  Compare,  for  example, 
the  characters  of  Falstaff  and  of  Autolycus  :  Falstaff, 
though  presented  in  a  more  archaic  manner,  is  drawn 
from  the  life  ;  Autolycus,  though  sympathetic  and 
amusing,  is  so  compressed  and  idealized,  that  he  is 
like  one  of  those  finished  pictures  whose  every  detail 
somehow  reveals  that  they  are  drawn  from  memory 
or  from  sketches.     Better  still,  compare  the  final  en- 

1  IV.  iii.  702  seq.  a  Ibid,  and  V.  ii.  134  seq. 

5  See  pp.  91,  195,  353.  *  IV.  iii. 


384  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

lightenment  of  Othello^  with  the  similar  enlightenment 
of  Lcontes.2  This  is  generally  typical  of  the  Winter^s 
Tale.  Tolerably  effective  in  conception,  it  is  at  once 
too  compressed  for  full  effect,  and  perceptibly  less 
spontaneous,  less  simple,  less  plausible,  less  masterly, 
than  the  greater  work  which  it  instantly  recalls. 

This  is  not  unduly  to  dispraise  the  Winter''s  Tale. 
In  many  traits  —  in  composition  of  plot,  in  firm  grasp 
and  contrast  of  character,  in  variety  and  precision  of 
atmosphere,  in  freedom  and  pregnancy  of  phrase  — 
the  Winter's  Tale  is  constantly  above  any  power  but 
Shakspere's.  Compared  with  his  own  work  elsewhere, 
however,  the  Winter^s  Tale  rarely  shows  him  at  his 
best.  The  only  passage,  indeed,  which  may  fairly 
be  deemed  better  than  similar  passages  which  have 
come  before  is  the  pastoral  scene.^  Here  for  once, 
amid  all  tlie  added  ripeness  of  feeling  wliich  per- 
vades this  romantic  period,  we  find  something  like 
Shakspere's  full,  spontaneous  creative  power.  With 
it  comes  such  a  whiff  of  pure  country  air  as  calls 
to  mind  the  actual  harvest  homes  of  rural  England, 
and  as  sets  critics  who  seek  Shakspere's  "  inner  life  " 
to  saying  wise  things  about  the  effect  on  the  man's 
morals  of  his  return  to  Stratford.  Such  guesses  as 
this  are  unprovable  vagaries ;  all  that  one  can  safely 
say  is  that,  unlike  any  scene  which  we  have  con- 
sidered since  Antony  and  Cleopatra^  this  pastoral 
scene,  though  full  of  romantic  unreality,  is  plausible. 

1  Othello,  V.  ii.  102-282. 

2  III.  ii.  1.32-173.  ■*  IV.  iii. 


THE   WINTER'S  TALE  385 

With  all  it8  lack  of  realism,  all  its  cunning  stage- 
craft, all  its  lovely  poetry  both  of  conception  and  of 
expression,  the  scene  seems  so  spontaneous,  so  racy, 
so  inevitable,  that  the  old  mood  of  the  best  time  steals 
on  you  unawares.  Again  and  again  you  yield  to  the 
illusion,  feeling  as  if  once  again  all  this  were  true. 

In  the  Winter^s  Tale,  however,  there  is  at  least  one 
touch  which  tends  to  show  that  Shakspere  would  de- 
liberately guard  against  any  such  impression  of  reality. 
Greene's  novel  makes  Bohemians  sail  to  sea-bound 
Sicily ;  Shakspere  deliberately  makes  Sicilians  sail 
to  sea-bound  Bohemia.  At  this  period,  as  we  have 
seen  again  and  again,  the  decay  of  spontaneous  im- 
j)ulse  gives  good  reason  for  believing  Shakspere  to 
have  been  constantly  deliberate.  If,  then,  his  wan- 
ton departure  from  geographic  fact  be  deliberate,  its 
reason  should  seem  to  be  that  Shakspere  meant  to 
place  all  this  romance  in  no  real  world,  but  rather 
in  such  a  world  just  beyond  the  limits  of  reality  as 
he  created  in  the  Tempest^  —  a  world  where  Tunis 
was  no  longer  the  lair  of  Barbary  pirates,  but  a 
chivalrously  romantic  kingdom,  a  world  where  the 
Mediterranean  expanded  into  an  ocean  as  limitless  as 
the  Western  Seas,  a  world  where  close  to  the  spot  in 
which  from  earliest  times  geographers  have  rightly 
placed  Sicily,  a  King  of  Naples  might  be  cast  away 
on  the  magic  isle  of  Prospero,  there  to  find  —  in  full 
agony  of  race-conflict  —  the  savage  Caliban.  Such 
romances  as  we  are  now  dealing  with,  this  deliberate 

1  See  p.  369. 

w      25 


386  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

fantasy  seems  to  say,  are  never  real.  They  are  the 
dreams,  the  ideals  which,  fancied  in  a  world  alien  to 
ours,  make  tolerable  the  inexorable  facts  of  our  own. 
Inexorable  fact,  despairing  sense  of  fate,  expired  with 
Coriolanus,  or  at  latest  with  Timon.  The  plays  which 
follow  breathe  instead  an  atmosphere  of  idealism, 
wherein  the  troubles  of  actuality  may  all  merge  in 
the  delights  of  free  fancy. 

Free,  at  any  rate,  beyond  Cymbeline  or  the  Tem- 
pest, we  may  fairly  call  this  Winter's  Tale.  Less 
complicated  in  plot  than  the  one,  it  is  less  elaborately 
artificial  than  the  other.  More  varied  in  character 
than  either,  it  is  at  once  more  firmly  individual  than 
the  Tempest,  and  less  laboriously  so  than  Cymbeline. 
Its  atmosphere  is  all  its  own.  Its  style  has  the  care- 
lessness of  disdainful  mastery.  For  all  this  freedom, 
however,  one  can  hardly  feel  that  theatrically  the 
Winter's  Tale  could  ever  have  been  much  more  satis- 
factory than  the  unsatisfactory  Cymbeline  or  Tempest. 
The  structural  experiment  of  deliberate  duality  is  per- 
haps the  boldest  of  the  three.  In  every  technical 
detail  the  work  shows  complete,  disdainful  mastery 
of  power.  Again  and  again,  however,  except  in  the 
great  pastoral  scene,  this  mastery  lacks  the  final 
grace  of  unconscious  spontaneity,  just  as  the  style 
lacks  final  simplicity.  Throughout  the  play,  in  short, 
one  is  aware  of  a  self-consciousness,  of  a  deliberation 
which  makes  one  hesitate  before  guessing  the  full  in- 
tention of  this  touch  or  that.  This  conscious  delib- 
eration reveals  just   such   trace   of  growing  age  as 


HENRY   VIII  387 

we  found  in  Cymbeline  and  in  the  Tempest.  Con- 
scious deliberation  means  effort ;  effort  means  crea- 
tive exhaustion.  Here,  perhaps,  the  effort  is  more 
masterly,  less  palpable,  than  before ;  here  still,  how- 
ever, the  effort  cannot  conceal  itself ;  and  the  effort 
tells  the  final  story,  —  Shakspere's  old  spontaneous 
power  was  fatally  gone. 


V.   Henry  YIII. 

[Henry  VITI.,  as  we  have  it,  was  first  entered  in  1623  and  published 
in  the  folio.  Various  records  prove,  however,  that  a  play  on  this  sub- 
ject was  given  at  the  Globe  Theatre  on  June  29th,  1613.  Carelessness 
in  the  discharge  of  a  gun  set  fire  to  the  theatre,  which  was  totally 
destroyed.  Quite  what  relation  this  play  of  1613  bore  to  the  Henry 
VIII.  we  possess  is  uncertain. 

The  sources  of  the  present  play  are  Holinshed,  Hall,  and  Foxe'a 
Martyrs. 

The  famous  criticism  of  Mr.  Spedding  —  summarized  in  the  intro- 
duction to  the  Leopold  Shakspere  and  in  the  Henry  Irviwj  edition  — 
virtually  demonstrated  that  a  considerable  part  of  this  play  is  by  John 
Fletcher.  Mr.  Fleay^  believes  that  much  is  also  by  Massinger;  and 
that  the  only  scenes  really  by  Shakspere  are  I.  ii. ;  II.  iii.  ;  and  II.  iv. 
Certain  critics  go  so  far  as  to  question  whether  any  of  the  play  is 
genuine. 

If  Shakspere's  at  all,  this  play  i.^  probably  later  than  any  other.  It 
may  be  conjecturally  assigned  to  1612  or  1613.] 

In  most  editions  of  Shakspere,  Henry  VJII.  is 
printed  immediately  after  Richard  III.  Thus  placed, 
its  maturity  of  detail  makes  it  seem  thoroughly  ad* 

1  Life,  250-252. 


388  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

mirable.  Here,  one  exclaims,  is  no  tissue  of  impos- 
sible villainy  and  operatic  convention ;  here,  rather, 
is  real  life.  How  any  one  could  for  a  moment  deem 
such  woi'k  not  Shakspere's  own  is  hard  to  see. 

Coming  to  Henry  VIII.,  on  the  other  hand,  as  we 
come  to  it  now,  where  modern  chronology  places  it, 
one  finds  its  effect  strangelv  different.  When  one 
has  considered  all  the  masterpieces  of  comedy,  of 
history,  and  of  tragedy,  when  one  has  considered, 
too,  the  tremendous  efforts  made  in  the  three  great 
romances  which  we  have  just  put  aside,  Henry  VIII. 
seems  comparatively  thin,  uncertain,  aimless.  In- 
stinctively one's  sympathies  take  a  different  turn. 
Instead  of  wondering  liow  work  like  this  can  be  as- 
cribed to  anybody  but  Shakspere,  one  finds  one's  self 
at  a  loss  to  see  how  work  like  this  can  rationally  be 
ascribed  to  Shakspere  at  all.  Of  course  there  are 
masterly  touches  in  Henry  VIII ;  of  course,  too,  at 
least  Queen  Katharine  and  Cardinal  Wolsey  are 
very  notable  characters.  After  all,  however,  is  there 
anything  in  either  the  style  or  the  characterization 
of  Henry  VIII.  which  should  make  one  surely  affirm 
any  part  of  this  undoubtedly  collaborative  work  to  be 
by  Shakspere's  hand  ?  May  not  one  rationally  doubt 
whether  this  is  anything  more  than  what  John  Webster 
stated  his  White  Devil  to  be/  —  a  play  to  be  judged  by 
the  standards  of  the  masters  ? 

For  our  purposes  such  questions  need  no  answer. 
The  very  fact  of  their  existence  is  more  instructive 

1   See  p.  20. 


HENRY  VIII  389 

than  the  most  definite  of  answers  could  possibly  be  -, 
for  it  proves  that,  whoever  wrote  or  collaborated  in 
Henry  VIII.,  the  play  is  broadly  typical  of  what  the 
English  stage  was  producing  when  Shakspere's  writing 
ended. 

At  the  very  beginning  of  our  study,  we  met  a  simi- 
lar state  of  things.  Like  Henry  VIII.  the  two  plays 
to  which  we  first  gave  attention  —  Titus  Andronicus 
and  Henry  VI.  —  were  ascribed  to  Shakspere  in  1623, 
and  have  recently  been  doubted.  For  our  purposes, 
however,  we  found  the  doubt  more  instructive  than 
any  certainty  could  have  been.  Whoever  wrote  Titus 
Andronicus  or  Henry  VI.,  we  found,  the  plays  were 
admirably  typical  of  the  theatrical  environment  amid 
which  Shakspere's  work  began. 

What  this  environment  was  like  we  may  remind 
ourselves  by  a  glance  at  the  opening  scene  of  Henry 
VI.  In  Westminster  Abbey  are  assembled  the  funeral 
train  of  King  Henry  V. ;  and  this  is  how  his  brothers 
and  uncles  begin  to  discourse :  — 

"  Bed.    Hun{^  be  the  heavens  with  black,  yield  day  to  night! 
Comets  importing  change  of  times  and  states, 
Brandish  your  crystal  tresses  in  the  sky, 
And  with  them  scourge  the  bad  revolting  stars 
That  have  consented  unto  Henry's  death  I 
King  Henry  the  Fifth,  too  famous  to  live  long  I 
England  ne'er  lost  a  king  of  so  much  worth. 

Glou.   England  ne'er  had  a  king  until  his  time. 
Virtue  he  had,  deserving  to  command: 
His  brandished  sword  did  blind  men  with  his  beams  ; " 

and  so  on,  for  six  lines  more. 


390  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

"  Exe.    We  mourn  in  black  :   why  mourn  we  not  in  blood  ? 
Henry  is  dead  and  never  shall  revive: 
Upon  a  wooden  coffin  we  attend, 
And  death's  dishonourable  victory 
We  with  our  stately  presence  glorify } "  — 

there  are  six  more  lines  of  this. 

"  Win.  He  was  a  king  bless'd  of  the  King  of  kings. 
Unto  the  French  the  dreadful  judgment-day 
So  dreadful  will  not  be  as  was  his  sight. 
The  battles  ot  the  Lord  of  hosts  he  fought: 
The  church's  prayers  made  him  so  prosperous." 

So  far  goes  the  opening  quartette  of  lament,  which 
nowadays  would  take  the  form  of  grand  opera.  Glou- 
cester now  breaks  in,  beginning  the  strain  of  discord 
which  is  to  be  silenced  only  with  the  other  Gloster  — 
Richard  III. 

"  Glou.  The  church  I  where  is  it  1  Had  not  churchmen  pray'd, 
His  thread  of  life  had  not  so  soon  decay'd  r 
None  do  you  like  but  an  effeminate  prince, 
Whom,  like  a  school-boy,  you  may  over-awe." 

This  is  more  than  enough  to  remind  us  of  all  the 
archaic,  operatic  conventions  which  beset  the  stage 
when  Shakspere  began  writing.  Whether  his  or 
not,  these  lines  are  such  as  in  the  beginning  he 
might  have  written. 

Turn  now  to  the  opening  scene  of  Henry  VIII. : 
the  Dukes  of  Norfolk  and  of  Buckingham  meet  in  an 
antechamber  of  the  palace,  and  the  following  talk 
ensues : — 

"  Buck.  Good  morrow,  and  well  met.     How  have  ye  done 
Since  last  we  saw  in  France  ? 


HENRY   ^^II  391 

^or.  I  thank  your  grace, 

Healthful;  and  ever  since  a  fresh  admirer 
Of  what  I  saw  there. 

Buck.  An  untimely  ague 

Stay'd  me  a  prisoner  in  my  chamber  when 
Those  suns  of  glory,  those  two  lights  of  men 
Met  in  the  vale  of  Andren. 

JVor.  'Twixt  Guynes  and  Arde  : 

I  was  then  present,  saw  them  salute  on  horseback; 
Beheld  them,  when  they  lighted,  how  they  clung 
In  their  embracement,  as  they  grew  together; 
Which    had    they,  what   four   throned  ones    could  have 

weigh'd 
Such  a  compounded  one  ? 

Buck.  All  the  whole  time 

I  was  my  chamber's  prisoner. 

Nor.  Then  you  lost 

The  view  of  earthly  glory  :   men  might  say, 
Till  this  time  pomp  was  single,  but  now  married 
To  one  above  itself  ;  —  " 

and  so  on  to  a  brilliant  description  of  the  Field  of  the 
Cloth  of  Gold.  The  calm  rationality  of  this  dialogue, 
its  almost  prosaic  modernity,  its  profound  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  actual  conditions  of  fact  combined  with  a 
free,  breaking  use  of  blank-verse  and  of  not  too  extra- 
vagant metaphor,  are  more  than  enough  to  remind  us, 
if  we  needed  reminding,  of  the  conventions  which  beset 
the  stage  when  Shakspere's  work  ended.  Whether  his 
or  not,  these  lines  are  such  as  in  the  end  he  might 
have  written. 

From  the  doubtful  Henry  VI.  we  have  proceeded 
through  a  long  series  of  indubitably  genuine  works 
to  the  equally  doubtful  Henri/  VIII.    Nowliore  on  the 


392  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

way  has  any  work  seemed  very  unlike  those  about  it. 
The  contrast  between  the  first  doubt  and  the  last, 
then,  is  startling;  nothing  could  more  clearly  demon- 
strate how  Shakspere  marks  the  progress  of  English 
Literature  from  a  state  which  seems  wholly  of  the  past 
to  one  which  seems  almost  like  the  present.  For  our 
purposes,  we  need  look  no  longer  at  Henry  VIII. 


VI.     Shakspere  about  1612. 

For  our  purposes,  too,  we  need  pause  very  little  to 
summarize  our  impression  of  the  last  works  of  Shaks- 
pere, as  they  have  appeared  in  this  chapter.  Details 
of  their  dates  can  never  be  decisively  settled.  There 
is  every  reason  to  believe,  however,  that,  in  some  order 
or  other,  the  plays  we  have  here  considered  were  all 
written  after  those  which  we  considered  before,  and 
that  they  virtually  complete  Shakspere's  work. 

Allowing  them  the  widest  chronological  range  ad- 
mitted by  any  consenting  criticism,  we  find  them  to 
belong  to  the  years  of  Shakspere's  life  which  carried 
him  from  forty-five  to  forty-eight,  and  from  the 
twenty-second  year  of  his  professional  work  to  the 
twenty-fifth  and  last.  In  all  three  of  the  unques- 
tioned plays,  and  quite  as  much  in  the  doubtful  Henry 
Vm.^  we  found  constant  traces  of  declining  creative 
power,  which  even  the  tremendous  technical  efforts  of 
Cymheline   and  the    Tempest   and   the  Winter  s   Tale 


SIIAKSPERE   ABOUT   lf!12  393 

were  powerless  to  conceal.  What  iiupulse  was  left 
(lie  man,  after  the  complete  break  of  his  spontaneous 
power  in  Tlmnn  and  Pericles^  was  an  impulse  rather 
of  philosophic  thoni^ht  than  of  artistic  emotion.  For 
such  a  purpose  there  are  few  worse  vehicles  than 
tlie  public  stage. 

Compare  with  these  plays,  now,  the  general  records 
of  publication  during  the  years  in  question. ^  In  1609, 
the  year  to  which  we  conjecturally  assigned  Cymhe- 
line,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Maid^s  TrcKjedy  is  said  to 
have  been  acted ,  and  among  the  publications  were  not 
only  the  Sonnets,  Troilus  and  Cressida,  and  Pericles, 
—  the  last  three  works  of  Shakspere  which  originally 
appeared  during  his  lifetime, — but  the  final  version 
of  Daniel's  Civil  Warn,  Dekker's  GulVs  Hornbook, 
Drayton's  Lord  Cromwell,  Jonson's  Epiceene  and  The 
Case  is  Altered,  and  the  Douay  translation  of  the 
Bible.  In  1610,  the  year  to  which  we  conjecturally  as- 
signed the  Tempest,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  Kiiiyld 
of  the  Burning  Pestle  and  Jonson's  Alchemist  are  said 
to  have  been  acted  ;  and  among  the  publications  were 
Bacon's  Wisdoin  of  the  Ancients,  twelve  books  of 
Chapman's  Iliad,  Donne's  Pseudo-Martyr,  Fletcher's 
Faithful  Shepherdess,  and  the  final  edition  of  the 
Mirror  for  Magistrates.  In  1611,  the  year  to  which 
we  conjecturally  assigned  the  Winter''s  Tale,  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher's  King  and  No  King,  and  Jonson's  Cati- 
line were  acted ;  and  among  the  publications  were 
tvvebe  more  books  of  Chapman's  Iliad,  Coryat's  Cru- 

1  K^laud  ;    Chronological  Oullints  of  English  Lileniture. 


394  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

dities,  Dekker  and  Middleton's  Roaring  Girl,  Donne's 
Anatomy  of  the  World,  Speed's  History  of  Great  Brit- 
ain, Tourneur's  Atheist'' s  Tragedy,  and  the  Authorized 
Version  of  the  Bible.  In  1612,  the  year  to  which  — 
more  conjecturally  still  —  we  assigned  Henry  VIII., 
came  the  second  edition  of  Bacon's  Essays,  two  plays 
by  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Hall's  Co7itemplations,  and 
John  Webster's  White  Devil,  whose  preface,  as  we  have 
seen,  mentioned  Shakspere  as  an  honored  tradition.^ 

The  hasty  list  is  enough  for  our  purpose.  At  this 
time,  when  Shakspere's  power  showed  plain  signs  of 
weakening,  English  Literature  was  at  once  more  mod- 
ern and  more  fertile  than  ever.  Of  the  riper  dram- 
atists, whose  work  is  full  of  effective  invention,  all 
but  the  distinctly  decadent  Ford  and  Massinger  were 
in  their  prime.  There  is  small  wonder,  then,  that 
Shakspere  wrote  no  more.  Competition  was  stronger 
than  ever ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  his  purposes  had 
outgrown  his  vehicle,  ancPfeis  spontaneous  impulse 
had  ceased.  Both  as  an  artist  and  as  a  man  he  had 
more  to  lose  than  to  gain. 

1  See  pp.  20,  408. 


XII 

WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

We  have  now  reached  the  last  stage  of  our  study. 
We  have  glanced  at  the  facts  of  Shakspere's  life ;  we 
liave  briefly  considered  the  condition  of  English  Litera- 
ture when  his  work  began  ;  and,  with  what  detail  has 
proved  possible,  we  have  considered,  in  conjocturally 
chronological  order,  all  the  works  commonly  ascribed 
to  him.  The  few  remaining  works  which  are  probably 
more  or  less  his  —  Edioard  III.,  the  Two  Noble  Kins- 
men, and  a  few  lyrics  —  are  not  generally  included  in 
the  staudard  editions.  Less  accessible,  then,  than 
what  we  have  considered,  they  are  also  less  interest- 
ing ;  nor  do  they  contain  anything  which  should  alter 
our  conclusions.  Our  conclusions,  however,  may  well 
be  affected  by  another  matter  at  which  we  have 
glanced,  —  the  English  literature,  in  general,  which 
came  into  existence  between  1587  and  1612,  during 
which  interval,  in  some  order  or  other,  the  works  of 
Shakspere  were  certainly  produced.  We  are  ready, 
then,  finally  to  review  our  imjiressions. 

In  looking  back  over  our  course,  perhaps  nothing  is 
more  notable  than  its  limits.  We  are  so  far  from 
having  covered  the  whole  subject  of  Shaksporo.  that 


396  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

we  have  neglected  parts  of  it  important  enough  to 
make  our  neglect  seem  almost  a  confession  of  igno- 
rance. Not  to  speak  of  endless  details,  we  have 
hardly  touched  on  the  range  or  the  quality  of  his 
genius ;  we  have  thought  little  about  the  subtleties 
of  his  art ;  we  have  hardly  glanced  at  the  scope 
and  the  character  of  his  philosophy  ;  nor  yet  have  we 
discussed  at  all  the  surprising  range  of  his  learning. 
And  so  on.  The  truth  is  that  the  subject  of  Shaks- 
pere  is  inexhaustible.  Whoever  would  deal  with  it, 
must  perforce  neglect  much  of  it.  At  any  moment, 
then,  those  phases  may  best  be  neglected  which  happen 
at  that  moment  to  have  been  best  discussed  elsewhere. 
Such  a  phase,  clearly,  is  Shakspere's  genius.  In 
the  fine  arts,  we  remember,  a  man  of  genius  is  he 
who  in  perception  and  in  expression  alike,  in  thought 
and  in  phrase,  instinctively  so  does  his  work  that  his 
work  remains  significant  after  the  conditions  which 
actually  produced  it  are  past.  The  work  of  any  man 
of  genius,  then,  is  susceptible  of  endless  comment  and 
interpretation,  varying  as  the  generations  of  posterity 
vary  from  his  and  from  one  another.  Such  interpre- 
tative comment  is  always  suggestive.  The  most  nota- 
ble example  of  it  concerning  Shakspere  may  perhaps 
be  found  in  the  writings  of  Coleridge.  Foreign  alike 
to  Shakspere's  time  and  to  our  own,  the  mood  of 
Coleridge  was  not  long  ago  vitally  contemporary. 
While  to-day  what  Coleridge  says  about  Shakspere 
often  seems  queerly  erratic,  it  must  always  be  inter- 
esting, both  as  an  important  phase  of  human  thought, 


WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE  397 

and  as  lasting  evidence  of  how  Shakspere's  genius 
presented  itself  to  one  who  came  near  being  a  man  of 
genius  himself.  In  some  such  manner  the  genius  of 
Shakspere,  like  any  other,  must  present  itself,  with 
ever  fresh  significance,  to  men  of  our  own  time  and  of 
times  to  come.  Like  Nature  herself,  the  work  of  the 
great  artists  must  always  possess  a  fresh  significance 
for  every  generation  which  comes  to  it  with  fresh  eyes. 
As  we  have  seen,  however,  this  significance  is  gener- 
ally implicit.  It  is  there  because,  by  the  very  laws  of 
his  nature,  the  artist  worked  with  instinctive  fidelity 
to  the  greater  laws  which  govern  actual  life.  In  a 
course  of  study  like  ours,  then,  whose  object  is  chiefly 
to  see  the  artist  as  he  may  have  seen  himself,  we 
may  well  neglect  those  aspects  of  his  work  which  are 
visible  only  after  the  lapse  of  centuries.  On  these, 
as  the  centuries  pass,  there  will  always  be  emphasis 
enough.  The  danger  is  not  that  Shakspere's  genius 
will  be  forgotten ;  but  that,  in  admiration  for  the 
aspects  in  which,  from  time  to  time,  that  genius 
defines  itself,  people  may  fatally  forget  the  truth 
that  Shakspere's  work  really  emanated  from  a  living 
man. 

Again,  there  is  a  great  deal  of  criticism  about  the 
art  of  Shakspere,  —  discussion  as  to  how  conscious 
it  was,  how  deliberate,  how  essentially  fine.  One  still 
hears  much  debate  as  to  whether  the  free,  romantic 
form  of  his  dramas  be  a  nobler  thing  or  a  meaner 
than  the  more  rigid  form  of  the  classics,  and  of  their 
modern  imitations.     Such  discussion   is  interesting; 


398  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

and  so  far  as  it  deals  with  the  precise  artistic  methods 
of  Shakspere  might  well  have  found  place  in  our 
study.  Here  and  there,  indeed,  as  space  permitted, 
we  have  touched  on  it,  —  most  notably,  perhaps,  in 
showing  how  the  finished  form  of  the  Midsummer 
Night's  Bream  grew  at  once  from  old  motives  and 
from  old  and  crude  conventions.^  So  far,  however, 
as  such  discussion  deals  with  general  matters, —  ques- 
tioning, for  example,  whether  classic  art  or  romantic 
be  the  finer, —  it  is  foreign  to  our  purpose,  and  in 
some  aspects  akin  to  tlie  less  famous  discussion  as  to 
whether  shad  or  custard  be  the  greater  delicacy.  For 
our  purposes,  we  may  be  content  with  knowing  that 
Shakspere,  an  Elizabethan  playwright,  was  as  much 
bound  by  the  conditions  of  his  time  to  write  in  the 
Elizabethan  manner  as  was  Sophocles  of  Athens  to 
compose  his  tragedies  after  the  manner  of  the  Greeks. 
Wlioever,  then,  would  finally  or  intelligently  criticise 
the  art  of  Shakspere  must  first  master,  as  hardly  any- 
body has  yet  mastered,  the  conditions  of  Shakspere's 
theatre.  Much  of  the  extant  criticism  of  Shakspere's 
art  resembles  that  of  Gotlilc  cathedrals  which  pre- 
vailed when  pseudo-classic  architecture  was  all  the 
fashion  ;  much  of  what  remains  resembles  that  criti- 
cism of  the  same  Gothic  churches  which  refers  the 
origin  of  their  aisles  and  arches  to  tlie  trunks  and 
boughs  of  forest  alleys.  Partly  for  want  of  space, 
then,  partly  for  want  of  sufficient  knowledge  as  yet, 
we  have  studied  Shakspere's  art  only  so  far  as  was 

1  See  pp.  107,  110. 


WILLIAM    SIIAKSPKRK  .''99 

necessary  to  make    clear    the  general  conditions  of 
his  time. 

Concerning  Shakspere's  philosophy, —  his  deliberate 
teaching, —  the  state  of  affairs  is  much  like  that  con- 
cerning his  genius.  Earnest  students  innumerable 
have  read  between  his  lines  endless  lessons,  some  of 
which  are  doubtless  very  wise  and  valuable.  Just 
how  far  he  meant  to  put  them  there,  however,  is 
another  question.  We  have  seen  enough  of  Eliza- 
bethan Literature  to  recognize  that  much  of  its  aphor- 
ism is  nothing  intentionally  more  serious  than  a  fresh 
combination  of  language.  In  the  very  prevalence  of 
its  aphorism,  however,  we  must  have  recognized  a 
symptom  at  once  of  a  general  appetite  for  proverbial 
philosophy,  and  of  that  generally  ripe  state  of  prac- 
tical experience  which  at  intervals  in  history  gives 
more  or  less  final  expression  to  a  state  of  life  about 
to  pass  away.  The  aphoristic  wisdom  of  Elizabethan 
Literature,  so  far  as  it  is  more  than  verbal,  broadly 
expresses  the  experience  of  mediaeval  England.  To 
this  aphorism  Shakspere  added  much.  Very  proba- 
bly, thougli,  what  he  added  was  no  system  of  ])hi- 
losophy ;  it  was  rather  a  series  of  sujierbly  final 
phrases,  now  and  again  combining  to  produce  a  com- 
plete artistic  impression,  —  such  as  the  pessimism  of 
Macbeth,  or  the  profound  idealism  of  the  Tempest,  — 
which  to  him  would  have  seemed  rather  emotional 
than  dogmatic.  In  one  sense  every  artist  is  a  philoso- 
pher ;  but  as  philosophy  is  commonly  understood, 
artists  are  apt  to  be  unconscious  philosophers,  —  phi- 


400  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

losophers  rather  by  the  inevitable  law  of  their  nature 
than  by  any  deliberate  intention  ;  and,  whatever  else  we 
have  done,  we  have  never  allowed  ourselves  to  forget 
that  from  beginning  to  end  Shakspere  was  an  artist. 

Another  matter,  much  discussed  nowadays,  we  have 
hardly  glanced  at.  Nothing  more  surprises  such 
readers  of  Shakspere  as  are  not  practical  men  of 
letters  than  the  man's  apparent  learning.  To  one 
used  to  writing,  the  phenomenon  is  less  surprising. 
To  translate  technical  matters  from  a  book  merely 
glanced  at,  into  such  finished  terms  as  the  unini- 
tiated suppose  to  imply  years  of  study  and  research, 
is  within  anybody's  power.  Whoever  will  take  a  few 
Elizabethan  books, —  North's  Plutarch,  for  example, 
Paynter's  Palace  of  Pleasure,  Foxe's  Martyrs,  Hol- 
inshed,  and  Coke  on  Littleton, —  and,  with  the  help  of 
stray  passages  from  all,  translate  some  narrative  from 
one  of  them  into  blank-verse  dialogue,  will  produce 
an  effect  of  erudition  which  shall  profoundly  impress 
not  onlv  his  readers  but  himself.  Whoever  has  a  few 
compendious  works  at  hand  and  knows  how  to  use 
them,  in  fact,  can  make  himself  seem  a  miracle  of 
learning  to  whoever  does  not  know  his  secret.  In 
Elizabethan  England  almost  all  books  were  compen- 
dious; so  was  the  common  talk  of  all  intelligent  men, 
—  for  learning  was  not  yet  specialized.  Given  these 
facts,  and  given  the  exceptionally  concrete  habit  of 
thought  and  phrase  native  to  Shakspere,  and  Shaks- 
pere's  learning  is  no  longer  a  marvel,  except  to  those 
who  insist  on  finding  it  so. 


WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE  401 

To  pass  from  matters  neglected  to  a  matter  pur- 
posely reserved,  nothing  is  more  notable  to  a  student 
of  Elizabethan  Literature  than  the  fact  that  Elizabethan 
Literature  presents  a  remarkably  typical  example  of 
artistic  evolution.      Art,  of  any   kind,  in  nations,  in 
schools,  even  in  individuals,    progresses  by  a  rhyth- 
mical law  of  its  own.     At  certain  epochs  the  arts  of 
expression  are  lifelessly  conventional.     Born  to  these 
conventions,  often   feeble  and   impotent,  the   nation, 
the  school,  or  the  individual  destined  to  be  great,  will 
begin,  like  those  who  preceded,  by  simple  imitation, 
differing  from  the  older  conventions  only  in  a  certain 
added  vigor.     By  and  by,  the  force  which  we  have 
called  creative  imagination  will  develop,  with  a  strange, 
mysterious  strength  of  its  own,  seemingly  almost  in- 
spired.    Throbbing  with  this  imaginative  impulse,  the 
nation,  the  school,  or  the  individual  artist  will  begin 
no  longer  to  imitate,  but  instead,  to  innovate,  with  an 
enthusiasm  for  the  moment  as  unconscious  of  limits 
to  come  as  it  is  disdainful  of  the  old,  conventional 
limits  which  it  has  transcended.     After  a  while,  the 
limits  to  come  will  slowly  define  themselves.     No  cre- 
ative or  imaginative  impulse  can  stray  too  far.     The 
power  of  words,  of  lines  and  colors,  of  melody  and 
harmony,  is  never  infinite.     If  slavish  fidelity  to  con- 
ventions  be    lifeless,  utter  disregard   of   conventions 
tends  to  the  still  more  fatal  end  of  chaotic,  inarticulate 
confusion.    One  may  break  fetter  after  fetter ;  but  one's 
feet  must  still  be  planted  on  the  earth.     One  may  move 
with  all  the  freedom  which  the  laws  of  nature  allow  ; 

2tj 


402  WILLIAM    SHAKSPKHK 

but  if  one  try  to  soar  into  air  or  ether,  one  is  more  lost 
even  than  if  one  count  one's  footsteps.  So  to  nations, 
to  schools,  to  individuals  alike  a  growing  sense  of 
limitation  must  come.  There  are  things  which  may 
be  achieved  ;  there  are  vastly  more  things  and  greater 
which  remain  fatally  beyond  human  power.  Experi- 
ence, then,  begins  to  check  the  wilder  impulses  of 
creative  innovation.  Imagination  is  controlled  by  a 
growing  sense  of  fact.  Finally,  this  sense  of  fact, 
this  consciousness  of  environment,  grows  stronger 
and  stronger,  until  at  length  all  innovating  impulse 
is  repressed  and  strangled.  Again  art  lapses  into  a 
convention  not  to  be  disturbed  until,  perhaps  after 
generations,  fresh  creative  impulse  shall  burst  its 
bonds  again. 

As  elsewhere  in  nature,  so  in  art,  creative  impulse 
is  a  strange,  unruly  thing,  tending  constantly  to  vari- 
ation from  the  older  types,  but  not  necessarily  to 
improvement.  While  the  general  principles  just  stated 
are  constantly  true  everywhere,  their  result  is  often 
abortive,  often,  too,  eccentric  or  decadent.  At  rare 
moments,  however,  creative  impulse  surges  for  a  while 
in  a  direction  which  carries  art  irresistibly  onward  to 
greater  and  better  expressions  than  men  have  known 
before.  Such  impulses  as  this  the  centuries  find  mar- 
vellous. When  a  great  creative  impulse  has  come, 
when  the  shackles  of  old  convention  are  broken,  when 
the  sense  of  the  new  limits  is  developed  at  once  so  far 
as  to  tell  instinctively  what  may  be  accomf)lished,  and 
not  so  overwhelmingly  as  to  crush  imagination  with 


WILLIAM  siiaksperp:  403 

the  fatal  knowledge  of  all  which  is  beyond  human 
power,  then,  for  a  little  while,  any  art  is  great.  The 
moment  of  ultimate  greatness  comes  when  a  true  cre- 
ative impulse  is  firmly  controlled,  but  not  yet  checked, 
by  a  rational  sense  of  fact. 

These  general  phenomena  are  nowhere  more  con- 
cretely shown  than  in  the  growth,  development,  and 
decay  of  English  Literature  during  the  period  which 
we  call  Elizabethan.  Really  beginning  before  the  reign 
of  Elizabeth,  this  literary  evolution  really  survived  her, 
lasting  indeed  until  the  unhappy  times  of  Charles  I. 
The  central  figure  of  the  period  during  which  it  took 
place,  however,  was  undoubtedly  the  great  queen,  who, 
above  any  other  English  sovereign,  was  once  the  central 
fact  of  national  life.  The  literature,  then,  which  we 
may  assume  to  have  begun  with  Wyatt  and  to  have 
ended  with  Shirley,  may  safely  enough  be  named  Eliza- 
bethan. In  this  literature  the  earlier  work  —  such  as 
that  of  Wyatt,  of  Surrey,  of  Roger  Ascham,  of  Foxe,  of 
Paynter  —  was  chiefly  notable  for  its  eager  breaking 
away  from  old  conventions.  In  substance  and  in  form 
alike  its  chief  motive  was  to  present  to  English  readers 
other  and  better  things  than  English  readers  had 
known  before.  Its  method  was  to  imitate  the  thought 
or  the  manner  of  greater  or  more  polished  peoples 
or  times.  Then  came  a  fresh  group  of  writers, — 
Sidney,  Lyly,  Spenser,  Hooker,  and  the  earlier  drama- 
tists. All  alike,  these  bold,  spirited  linguistic  inno- 
vators were  busy  chiefly  in  proving,  with  constantly 
freshening   impulse,  what  the  newly    found   English 


404  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

language  might  do.  Then  came  Marlowe  and  Shaks- 
pere,  and  the  great  Elizabethan  drama,  —  the  one 
thing  which  at  that  moment  the  language  and  the  race 
might  best  accomplish.  Then,  very  swiftly,  came  the 
decline,  when  such  men  as  Bacon  and  Drayton,  and 
Davies,  and  Chapman,  and  lesser  ones, —  actually  con- 
temporary with  the  greatest,  but  tending  rather  toward 
limitation  than  toward  innovation,  —  began  to  use  the 
tamed  language  for  purposes  more  and  more  special. 
The  old  impulse  was  a  thing  of  the  past. 

Such  generalizations  must  seem  nebulous.  A  glance 
at  a  half-forgotten,  but  still  great  work  of  the  period, 
may  perhaps  define  them.  During  the  reign  of 
Queen  Elizabeth  no  Englishman  lived  a  more  com- 
plete life  than  Sir  Walter  Ralegh.  Country  gentle- 
man, student,  soldier,  sailor,  adventurer,  courtier, 
favorite  and  spoilsman,  colonizer,  fighter,  landlord, 
agriculturist,  poet,  patron  of  letters,  state  prisoner, 
explorer,  conqueror,  politician,  statesman,  conspirator, 
chemist,  scholar,  historian,  self-seeker,  and  ultimately 
a  martyr  to  patriotism,  he  acquired  through  the  latter 
half  of  Elizabeth's  reign  the  most  comprehensive  ex- 
perience ever  known  to  an  Englishman.  Almost  with 
the  accession  of  King  James  his  prosperity  came  to 
an  end.  He  was  imprisoned  in  the  Tower,  where  for 
above  ten  years  he  busied  himself  with  writing  his 
great  History  of  the  World.  To  this  task  he  brought 
a  rare  equipment ;  for  not  only  did  he  nobly  conceive 
history  as  the  visible  record  of  God's  dealing  with 
mankind,  but  he  had  actually  experienced  more  wide 


AVTIJ.TA>r   SIIAKSPERE  405 

variety  of  such  matters  as  make  history  than  has  any 
other  Englishman  hcfore  or  since.  With  above  ten 
years  of  enforced  leisure  and  concentration,  with  the 
best  scholarship  of  the  time  to  help  him  collect  ma- 
terial, with  a  very  beautiful  stately  English  style  of 
his  own,  he  set  about  his  task.  In  1614,  as  much 
of  his  work  as  he  ever  finished  was  published.  The 
History  of  the  World  has  so  long  been  obsolete  that 
except  for  its  name  it  is  almost  forgotten.  It  is  tra- 
ditionally supposed  to  be  queer  and  fantastic,  with 
occasional  fine  bits  of  rhetoric.  Rcallv,  it  is  among 
the  most  nobly  planned  books  in  the  world.  History, 
as  we  have  seen,  Ralegh  conceived  to  be  the  visible 
record  of  God's  dealing  with  men.  Its  value,  then, 
lay  chiefly  in  the  fact  that  to  whoever  should  study 
it  seriously  and  reverently,  it  taught  truths  not  else- 
where accessible  concerning  the  nature  and  the  will 
of  God.  In  the  language  of  his  time  this  meant  what 
to-day  would  be  meant  by  a  philosophic  historian, 
who  should  find  in  his  subject  not  merely  stirring 
narrative  or  plain  record  of  fact,  but  the  visible  teach- 
ings of  human  experience,  which,  properly  understood, 
should  govern  future  conduct.  Not  only  was  Ralegh's 
effort  a  grandly  philosophic  one,  too,  but,  as  we  have 
seen,  he  brouglit  to  its  accomplishment  an  almost 
unique  equipment.  Besides  all  this,  the  man  had 
a  wonderfully  cool,  clear,  rational  head  ;  his  mind 
was  among  the  most  prudently  and  judiciously  criti- 
cal in  all  historical  literature.  Yet,  as  we  have  seen, 
his  great  History  has  proved  of  so  little  value  that 


406  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

people  nowadays  mostly  suppose  it  to  be  merely 
quaint. 

The  reason  for  this  failure  clearly  defines  just  what 
the  chief  limit  of  Elizabethan  Literature  was  bound  to 
be.  Human  nature  has  always  open  to  it  a  wealth  of 
experience  which  may  indefinitely  develop  individuals  ; 
and  in  the  time  of  Elizabeth  the  possible  range  of 
individual  experience  was  probably  wider  than  at  any 
other  period  of  history.  Whoever  would  write,  like 
Ralegh,  however,  in  a  profoundly  philosophic  spirit, 
needs  more  experience  to  work  with  than  can  ever 
come  to  any  individual.  No  individual  can  master  the 
material  world,  even  of  his  own  day  ;  still  less  can  he 
extend  his  experience  beyond  the  limits  of  his  own  life. 
To  deal  with  history,  then,  on  such  a  scale  as  Ralegh 
planned,  a  man  must  have  recourse  to  endless  rec- 
ords which,  to  avail  him,  must  have  been  subjected 
to  generations  of  patient  scientific  criticism ;  and  in 
Ralegh's  time  —  in  Elizabethan  England  —  there  were 
no  records  which  he  could  safely  trust.  In  history, 
in  science,  in  all  things  ahke,  the  gathering  of  valid 
material  was  still  to  make.  All  that  was  ready  for 
anything  like  final  expression,  then,  was  on  the  one 
hand  the  actual  experience  of  individuals,  and  on  the 
other  a  plain  assertion  of  some  method  by  which,  in 
generations  to  come,  serious  study  might  safely  be 
guided. 

In  the  ripeness  of  Elizabethan  Literature,  both  of 
these  things  were  finally  expressed.  Whatever  its 
error  of  detail,  the  philosophical  writing  of  Bacon  has 


WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE  407 

done  more  than  any  other  work  of  modern  times  to 
guide  in  the  road  which  they  have  travelled  the 
thought  and  the  scholarship  of  the  future.  More 
notably  still,  the  Elizabethan  Drama  —  whatever  its 
artistic  peculiarities, or  faults,  or  vagaries  —  expressed 
with  a  power  and  a  range  never  surpassed  the  infi- 
nitely varied  possibility  and  intensity  of  individual 
experience.  Of  these  two  final  achievements  the 
drama,  if  not  the  more  lasting  in  its  effects,  was  for 
the  moment  the  more  complete.  Nothing  less  than 
the  lapse  of  centuries  could  have  demonstrated  the 
value  of  Bacon's  philosophy.  By  the  very  nature  of 
things,  on  the  other  hand,  the  power  of  a  great  dra- 
matic literature  must  be  evident  to  the  public  which 
first  welcomes  it.  With  an  approach  to  truth,  then, 
we  may  say  that  Elizabethan  Literature  reduces  itself 
finally  to  the  Elizabethan  Drama. 

In  the  work  of  Shakspere  we  have  studied  this  drama 
somewhat  minutely.  Incidentally,  too,  we  glanced 
at  the  state  in  which  Shakspere  found  the  stage,  and 
also  at  the  work  of  his  greatest  predecessor  and 
early  contemporary,  —  Marlowe.  Before  Shakspere 
had  really  begun  to  show  what  power  was  in  him, 
Marlowe  was  dead.  Since  Marlowe's  time,  we  have 
considered  the  drama  only  as  it  appears  in  Shakspere. 
More  clearly  to  define  his  position,  we  may  now  to 
advantage  glance  at  another  dramatist  who  seems,  like 
Marlowe,  greater  than  most  of  his  contemporaries. 

This  is  John  Webster.     While  Mr.  Fleay^  shows 

1  Chronicle  of  the  English  Drama,  II.  268. 


408  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

reason  to  believe  that  Webster  collaborated  with 
Drayton  and  Middleton  and  others  as  early  as  1602, 
there  seems  no  doubt  that  his  first  independent  work 
was  the  White  Devil,  —  the  play,  published  in  1612, 
which  he  expressly  hopes  shall  be  read  in  the  light  of 
Chapman's  work,  and  Jonson's,  and  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher's,  and  Shakspere's,  and  Dekker's,  and  Hey- 
wood's.i  Just  as  the  work  of  Marlowe  typifies  what 
the  stage  was  like  when  Shakspere's  writing  began, 
then,  the  White  Devil, — a  fair  type  of  Webster's  power, 
—  coming  after  Shakspere's  work  was  done,  may  be 
taken  as  an  example  of  what  the  stage  was  like  when 
Shakspere's  writing  ceased. 

The  story  of  the  White  Devil  is  virtually  histori- 
cal ;  what  is  more,  it  was  almost  contemporary.  The 
events  therein  detailed  occurred,  about  1585,  in  that 
Italy  which  to  Elizabethans  was  much  what  the  Second 
Empire  in  France  was  to  the  Americans  of  thirty  years 
ago  —  at  once  their  model  of  civilization,  the  chief 
source  of  their  culture,  and  at  the  same  time  the  sink 
wherein  they  learned,  along  with  much  polite  accom- 
plishment, to  what  depths  of  depravity  human  nature 
may  fall.  The  story,  in  short,  bore  to  Webster's  audi- 
ence such  relation  as  might  be  borne  to  a  modern 
audience  by  a  play  which  should  deal  with  the  career 
of  Louis  Philippe's  Due  de  Choiseul-Praslin,  or  with 
that  of  Louis  Napoleon's  Countess  Castiglione.  Web- 
ster, to  be  sure,  took  his  artist's  privilege,  and  altered 
certain  characters  for  dramatic  effect :    Camillo,  the 

1  See  p.  20. 


WILLIAM   SIIAKSPERE  409 

injured  husband,  for  example,  he  made  a  wittol,  and 
Isabella,  the  murdered  wife,  a  highly  respectable  per- 
son, —  which  was  far  from  the  actual  case.  On  the 
whole,  however,  he  preserved  enough  fact  to  claim 
the  protection  of  historical  authority. 

As  he  tells  the  story,  Vittoria  Corombona,  the 
daughter  of  a  poor  Venetian  family,  is  married  to 
Camillo,  a  Roman  numskull.  Her  brother,  Flamineo, 
an  utterly  corrupt  soldier  of  fortune,  induces  her  not 
unwillingly  to  become  the  mistress  of  the  Duke  of 
Brachiano.  This  infatuated  voluptuary  finally  deter- 
mines to  marry  her ;  whereupon  he  has  his  faithful 
wife,  Isabella,  poisoned,  and  meanwhile  Flamineo 
manages  to  make  Camillo  break  his  neck.  Francisco 
de  Medicis,  brother  of  the  murdered  Isabella,  and 
the  Cardinal  Monticelso  suspect  foul  play,  and  have 
Vittoria  arrested  on  a  charge  of  murdering  her  hus- 
band, Camillo.  Although  the  crime  cannot  be  proved, 
sufficient  evidence  is  adduced  to  send  Vittoria  to  a 
Roman  Bridewell.  Francisco,  meanwhile,  has  pri- 
vately convinced  himself  that  the  real  murderer  of 
Isabella  was  Brachiano.  In  pursuance  of  revenge, 
then,  he  takes  advantage  of  the  confusion  attending 
the  election  of  Monticelso  to  the  papacy  ,^  and  enables 
Brachiano  to  steal  Vittoria  from  prison,  and  to  carry 
her,  with  all  her  family,  to  Padua.     For  this  impious 

1  Historically  the  man  whom  Webster  calls  Monticelso  was  named 
Montalto,  and  was  made  pope  by  the  name  of  Sixtus  V.  Webster 
makes  him  take  the  name  of  Paul  IV.  —  historically  that  of  a  Caraffa 
This  licentious  treatment  of  historic  fact  is  typically  Elizabethan. 


410  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

escapade,  the  fugitives  are  excommunicated.  Fran- 
cisco, still  bent  on  vengeance,  follows  them  in  disguise, 
accompanied,  among  other  ruffians,  by  a  certain  Count 
Lodovico,  who  had  hopelessly  loved  the  murdered 
Duchess.  At  a  tournament,  they  managed  to  poison 
Brachiano's  helmet.  As  he  lies  dying  in  agony, 
Lodovico,  disguised  as  a  priest,  pours  into  his  ears, 
under  color  of  extreme  unction,  all  the  curses  his 
revengeful  brain  can  devise.  Then,  while  Flamineo 
and  Vittoria  are  quarrelling  over  what  Brachiano  has 
left,  Lodovico  breaks  in  and  kills  them — only  to  be 
killed  in  turn  by  Francisco,  who  would  cover  his 
tracks. 

The  first  thing  which  impresses  one  in  the  treat- 
ment of  this  morbidly  horrible  story  is  that,  within 
the  now  established  traditions  of  dramatic  form,  it  is 
studiously  realistic.  The  characters  throughout  are 
considered  as  living  human  beings.  The  atmosphere 
is  so  veracious  that  the  play  can  teach  us,  almost 
historically,  what  Sixteenth  Century  Italy  was  like. 
This  Italy  —  the  country  which  produced  Machiavelli 
—  was  remarkable  for  such  bewildering  complexity 
as  always  pervades  an  over-ripe  period  of  society.  Of 
this  complexity,  Webster,  witli  his  realistic  purpose, 
was  so  profoundly  aware  that  throughout  the  play, 
despite  all  his  power  of  imagination,  you  feel  him 
constantly  hampered  by  a  sense  of  how  much  he 
had  to  tell.  Great  as  he  was,  in  short,  his  subject 
and  his  vehicle  combined  almost  to  master  him. 
Every    scene,  every    character,  every   speech,   every 


WILLIAM   SIIAKSPERE  411 

phrase,  seems  deliberately  studied ;  every  line  shows 
painful  thought;  yet  for  all  these  pains  the  play 
remains  in  total  effect  rather  a  tremendous  sketch 
than  a  finished  work  of  art.  At  first  sight,  with  all 
its  complexity  of  detail,  it  is  puzzling.  As  you  study 
it,  you  begin  to  feel  its  power  more  and  more,  until, 
compared  with  any  other  power  except  Shakspere's 
own,  it  seems  almost  supreme.  Constantly,  however, 
you  feel  that  at  an  earlier  period  in  the  drama  such 
power  might  have  exerted  itself  not  with  painful 
effort,  but  with  spontaneous  ease.  As  matters  stand, 
though  the  construction  of  scenes  and  the  develop- 
ment of  character  prove  Webster  a  great  dramatist, 
and  though  phrase  after  phrase  prove  him  a  great 
poet,  you  feel  him  paralyzed  by  a  crushing  sense  of 
his  limitations.  A  wonderful  stroke  of  character 
stands  by  itself,  then  comes  a  startling  situation,  then 
an  aphorism,  then  a  simile,  then  some  admirable 
interjected  anecdote ;  and  so  on.  Nothing  is  finally 
fused,  however ;  you  feel  none  of  that  glowing  heat  of 
spontaneous  imagination  which,  unchecked  by  ade- 
quate sense  of  fact,  kept  still  half-inarticulate  the 
aspiring  poetry  of  Marlowe.  If  one  would  know  what 
the  force  of  creative  imagination  is  like  which  awakens 
a  great  school  of  art,  one  cannot  do  better  than  turn 
to  Marlowe ;  if  one  would  realize  the  sense  of  limita- 
tion in  which  a  great  school  of  art  finally  declines, 
one  cannot  do  better  than  turn  to  Webster. 

Between    them    stands    Shakspere,    actually    con- 
temporary with  both,  find  throughont  his  host  period, 


412  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

fusing  the  chief  merits  of  each.  Between  them,  too, 
in  artistic  evolution,  if  not  always  in  actual  dates, 
comes  the  great  group  of  ripe  dramatists  with  whom, 
during  the  most  vigorous  period  of  his  work  as  well 
as  during  its  laborious  decline,  Shakspere  competed 
for  public  favor.  We  can  glance  at  them  only  very 
hastily  ;  but  a  hasty  glance  is  worth  our  while.  Ben 
Jonson  was  the  greatest  master  of  eccentric  "  hu- 
mour"—  a  trait  always  dear  to  the  English  —  who 
ever  wrote  for  the  English  stage ;  probably,  too,  he 
was  the  most  consummate  master  of  mere  stage- 
business.  Marston,  though  coarse,  was  an  admirable 
writer  of  sensational  tragedy.  Dekker  was  unique 
for  a  joyous,  off-hand  spontaneity  of  feeling  and  of 
phrase.  Middleton,  but  for  a  fatal  coldness  of  per- 
sonal temper,  might  almost  have  rivalled  Shakspere 
in  the  handling  of  character,  tragic  and  comic  alike. 
Hey  wood,  untroubled  by  such  traditions  of  courtly 
grandeur  as  made  Shakspere,  to  the  end,  habitually 
head  his  dramatis  personce  by  the  figure  of  a  sover- 
eign, was  thorough  master  of  romantic  sentiment. 
Chapman,  if  inarticulate,  was  a  constantly  impres- 
sive and  weighty  moralizer.  Tourneur  was  almost 
modern  in  his  impious  recklessness.  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  though  palpably  decadent,  were  superb 
masters  of  fascinatingly  sentimental,  always  melliflu- 
ous, constantly  interesting  romance.  Nowadays,  of 
course,  any  one  can  see  that  neither  these  nor  any  of 
their  fellows  can  compare,  for  range  or  power,  with 
Shakspere.      None   of   them,  nor  indeed    any  Eliza- 


WILLIAM   SHAKSPEKE  413 

bethan  but  Shaksperc,  was  contemporary  at  once 
with  Marlowe  and  with  "Webster.  One  and  all, 
however,  have  merits  which,  by  any  contemporary 
standards,  might  well  have  been  confused  with 
his.  Generally  spontaneous,  their  work  has  con- 
tinual flashes  of  insight ;  it  is  often  very  beauti- 
fully phrased  ;  and  it  is  rarely  overburdened  with 
anything  which  should  fatigue  or  repel  a  popular 
audience.  In  the  full  Hush  of  their  power,  these 
men  had  popular  merits,  as  well  as  merits  which 
have  proved  lasting.  From  the  outset,  too,  their 
merits  were  patent. 

In  several  ways,  however,  these  later  men  differed 
both  from  the  earlier  group  which  preceded  Shakspere, 
and  less  palpably  from  Shakspere  himself.  As  we 
saw  in  the  beginning,  the  first  Elizabethan  play- 
wrights were  closely  connected  with  the  actual  stage, 
at  a  time  when  the  stage  was  socially  disreputable. 
They  were  men  of  fine  poetic  gifts  and  of  tolerable 
education  ;  but  they  were  the  Bohemians  of  a  society 
which  admitted  no  distinction  between  reputable  life 
and  such  professional  crime  as  is  lastingly  pictured 
in  the  tavern  scenes  of  Henry  IV.  The  later  play- 
wrights, on  the  other  hand,  were  men  of  higher 
rank  and  of  far  more  reputable  habit.  Beaumont, 
for  example,  was  the  son  of  a  judge ;  Fletcher  was 
the  son  of  a  bishop  ;  Webster's  father  was  a  Lon- 
don citizen  of  the  better  sort ;  and  so  on.  In  their 
own  private  life  the  traditional  Mermaid  Tavern, 
which  foreshadowed  the  clubs  and  the  coffee-houses 


414  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

of  the  Eighteenth  Century,  took  the  place  of  such 
squalid  surroundings  as  saw  the  end  of  Marlowe 
and  of  Greene.  Many  of  these  men,  too,  were 
merely  poets  or  dramatic  authors  ;  they  were  not 
actors.  The  stage,  in  short,  was  growing  into  such 
better  repute  as  was  bound  to  come  with  the  in- 
creasingly definite  organization  of  society.  A  true 
Bohemia  was  coming  into  existence. 

The  work  of  these  more  reputable  men,  at  the  same 
time,  was  less  reputable  than  that  of  their  predeces- 
sors. As  the  stage  grew  established,  it  grew  more 
and  more  licentious.  The  work  of  Marlowe  needs 
little  expurgation ;  that  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
for  all  its  grace  and  beauty,  is  full  of  abominations. 
As  will  often  be  the  case  with  any  school  of  art,  the 
beginnings  of  the  Elizabethan  drama  had  a  simple, 
spontaneous  purity  which  vanished  when  the  develop- 
ment of  the  school  made  over-refinement  of  effort, 
take  the  place  of  such  broadly  general  motives  as 
underlay  the  work  of  Greene  and  Peele  and  Marlowe. 

Another  distinction  has  been  admirably  defined  by 
Mr.  Fleay  :  ^  — 

"1  may  perhaps  at  this  point  note  how  greatly  the 
playwrights  who  were  also  actors  excelled  the  gentle- 
tuen  authors  .  .  .  We  have  first  on  the  actor-poet  list 
Shakspere,  more  than  enough  to  counterpoise  all  the 
rest;  then  Jonson,  the  second  greatest  name  in  our  annals; 
then  Heywood,  Field,  liowley,  Arniin,  Monday.  On  the 
other  side  are  great  names  also:  Beaumont,  Fletcher,  Web- 

1  Chronicle  History  of  the  London  Stage,  p.  167. 


WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE  415 

ster,  Massinger,  Shirley,  Chapman,  and  many  others,  all 
great  as  poets,  but  none  (except  Massinger  perhaps)  equal 
to  even  the  lesser  men  in  the  other  list  in  that  undefinable 
quality  which  separates  the  acting  play  from  the  drama  for 
closet  reading;  the  quality  which  makes  Goldsmith  and 
Sheridan  successful,  but  the  want  of  which  condemns 
Henry  Taylor,  Browning,  and  Shelley  to  remain  the  de- 
light, not  of  the  crowd,  but  of  the  solitary  student.  My 
opinion  in  this  matter  is  no  doubt  open  to  much  qualifica- 
tion, but  there  is  in  connexion  with  it  one  fact  beyond 
dispute,  viz.,  all  actor-poets  of  any  great  note  began  their 
theatrical  careers  before  the  accession  of  James." 

These  brief  notes  must  suffice  to  define  the  histori- 
cal position  of  Shakspere  as  the  central  figure,  and  the 
most  broadly  typical,  in  the  evolution  of  perhaps  the 
most  broadly  typical  school  of  art  in  modern  litera- 
ture. Quite  apart  from  its  lasting  literary  value, 
apart,  too,  from  its  unique  personal  quality,  the  work 
of  Shakspere  has  new  interest  to  modern  students  as 
a  complete  individual  example  of  how  fine  art  emerges 
from  an  archaic  convention,  fuses  imagination  with 
growing  sense  of  fact,  and  declines  into  a  more  ma- 
ture convention  where  the  sense  of  fact  represses  and 
finally  stifles  the  force  of  creative  imagination. 

To  repeat  in  detail  the  summaries  of  his  work  al- 
ready made  were  tedious.  It  is  enough  merely  to 
glance  at  the  four  periods  into  which  we  divided  his 
career.  The  first  —  from  1587  to  1593  or  thereabouts 
—  we  called  experimental.  He  contented  himself 
with  widely  versatile  imitation,  revealing  two  personal 


416  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

qualities :  a  habit  of  mind  by  which,  to  a  degree 
unique  in  English  Literature,  words  and  concepts 
were  identical ;  and  later,  a  power  of  enlivening  the 
conventional  figures  of  his  original  sources  by  no 
end  of  little  touches  derived  from  observation  of 
life.  Throughout  this  first  period,  however,  his  work 
never  so  differed  from  that  of  his  contemporaries  as 
to  be  free  from  the  palpable  archaism  amid  which 
a  great  school  of  art  begins. 

During  the  second  period  of  his  career  —  from  1593 
to  1600  —  the  force  of  his  imagination,  first  revealing 
itself  in  the  artistic  completeness  of  the  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream  and  almost  simultaneously  in  the  vivid 
characterization  of  Romeo  arid  Juliet,  pervaded  and 
altered  whatever  he  touched.  His  command  of  lan- 
guage almost  constantly  strengthened,  until  —  as 
throughout  his  career  —  one  felt  half  insensibly  that 
while  his  native  habit  of  mind,  fusing  phrases  and 
concepts,  never  altered,  he  tended  constantly  to  con- 
sider thoughts  more  and  words  less.  Meanwhile  his 
power  of  enlivening  character  by  the  results  of  obser- 
vation so  persisted  and  strengthened  that  at  last  — 
as  in  the  case  of  Falstaff  —  his  characters  began  to 
have  almost  independent  existence.  At  the  same 
time,  with  all  this  power  of  creating  character  and 
of  uttering  ultimate  phrases,  he  displayed  more  and 
more  palpably  a  sluggishness,  if  not  an  actual  weak- 
ness, of  invention.  He  repeated,  to  a  degree  unap- 
proached  by  any  other  writer  of  his  time,  whatever 
device  had  proved  theatrically  effective,  —  confusion 


WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE  417 

of  identity,  for  example,  and  later  self-deception. 
Apart  from  these  traits,  this  second,  purely  artistic 
period  revealed  little.  He  created  a  small  army  of 
living  individuals,  he  displayed  a  constant  artistic 
impulse,  but  he  revealed  no  profound  personal  sense 
of  fact.  During  this  period,  then,  his  own  peculiar 
power  of  imagination  and  of  artistic  impulse  was  at 
work  almost  unchecked.  The  most  marked  peculiar- 
ity of  his  power,  however,  —  that  it  was  confined  to 
such  matters  of  detail  as  character,  phrase,  or  atmos- 
])here,  —  meant  that  his  natural  sense  of  fact  was 
strong.  The  growing  vitality  of  his  personages  in- 
dicated meanwhile  a  superb  fusion  of  imagination 
with  this  sense  of  fact. 

During  the  third  period  of  his  artistic  career —  from 
1600  to  1608  —  we  found  again  this  superb  fusion  of 
his  own  peculiar  creative  power  and  his  own  strong 
sense  of  fact.  During  this  period,  however,  we  found 
something  far  more  significant  than  the  merely  artis- 
tic impulse  which  had  preceded.  Up  to  this  time  his 
plays  had  expressed  nothing  deeper  than  the  touch  of 
irony  which  underlies  Much  Ado  About  Nothing.  Now, 
in  place  of  the  old  versatility  first  of  experiment  and 
then  of  concentration,  we  found  a  constant,  crescent 
expression  of  such  emotion  as  should  come  only  from 
profound  spiritual  experience.  He  began  to  use  his 
thoroughly  mastered  vehicle  for  the  dramatic  expres- 
sion of  such  motives  as  we  had  seen  to  underly  his 
wonderfully  finished  Sonnets.  In  these  motives  we 
observed    first  a  profound    and   increasing   sense   of 

27 


418  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

irony,  of  fate,  of  the  helplessness  of  human  beings  in 
the  midst  of  their  crushing  environment.  Then  came, 
with  endless  variations,  a  profound  sense  of  the  evil 
which  must  always  spring  from  the  mysterious  fact  of 
sex.  Finally,  perhaps  as  a  result  of  these  two  causes, 
came  a  state  of  mind  so  over-wrought  that,  had  it  not 
been  balanced  by  his  supreme  artistic  sanity,  it  might 
almost  have  lapsed  into  madness.  At  the  height  of 
this  period,  when  he  produced  his  four  great  tragedies, 
his  imagination  was  working  with  its  fiercest  power, 
and  his  sense  of  fact  meanwhile  controlled  it  with 
ultimate  firmness. 

One  by  one,  the  profound  traits  of  this  period  began 
to  disappear.  With  Macbeth  we  saw  the  end  of  the 
morbid  excitement  of  mind ;  with  Antony  and  Cleo- 
patra we  bade  farewell  to  the  evil  of  woman ;  with 
Coriolanus,  where  at  length  eccentricity  or  "  humour  " 
began  to  replace  inevitable  character,  came  the  last 
complete  expression  of  despairing  irony.  In  other 
words,  the  power  of  his  imagination,  perhaps  ex- 
hausted by  the  very  intensity  of  its  exercise,  began 
to  weaken  under  the  pressure  of  a  crushing  sense 
of  fact. 

In  Timon  and  Pericles  we  found  a  moment  of  ar- 
tistic transition.  The  spontaneous  power  was  gone. 
All  that  remained  of  the  old  Shakspere  was  the  mar- 
vellous command  of  language,  palpable  even  in  his 
earliest  work,  and  crescent  with  him  to  the  end. 

Finally,  in  the  fourth  and  last  period  of  his  career 
—  which  extended  at  most  from  1609  to  1612  —  we 


WILLIAM   SIIAKSPERE  419 

found  a  colossal  series  of  technical  experiments,  where, 
with  all  his  unequalled  mastery  of  art,  and  with  a 
serenely  ideal  philosophy,  he  was  struggling,  in  vain, 
to  enliven  with  something  like  the  old  spontaneous 
imaginative  power,  the  crushing  sense  of  fact  which 
was  fatally  closing  in  not  only  on  him,  but  on  the 
school  of  literature  to  which  he  belongs.  The  more 
one  studies  Shakspere's  work  as  a  whole,  the  more 
complete  becomes  its  typical  historic  significance. 

This  typical  quality,  however,  is  not  the  trait  which 
has  made  it  survive.  Just  now  the  study  of  literary 
evolution  happens  to  be  the  fashion,  or  at  least  to  ap- 
peal to  the  temper  of  the  day.  The  temper  in  ques- 
tion is  new  and  probably  transient.  Shakspere  was  a 
supreme  figure  long  before  it  existed ;  he  will  remain 
such  long  after  it  has  taken  its  place  among  the  curiosi- 
ties of  the  past.  What  makes  him  perennial  is  that, 
above  any  other  modern  poet,  he  was  a  man  of  genius, 
—  one  who  in  perception  and  in  expression  alike,  in 
thought  and  in  phrase,  instinctively  so  did  his  work 
that  it  remains  significant  long  after  the  conditions 
which  actually  produced  it  have  vanished.  In  our 
admiration  for  this  genius,  for  this  constantly  fresh 
significance,  we  are  apt  to  forget  all  else,  and  in  our 
forgetfulness  to  be  lost  in  stammering  wonder. 

Nowadays  the  form  which  this  wonder  most  aptly 
takes  is,  perhaps,  first  amazement,  then  incredulity, 
then  frank  doubt  as  to  whether  all  this  wonderful 
poetry  could  conceivably  have  been  produced  by  a 
middle-class  Englishman,  the  record  of  whose  life  is 


420  WILLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

so  calmly  commonplace.  Such  doubt  can  no  more 
be  dispelled  by  any  process  of  argument  than  can 
religious  scepticism.  Like  religious  scepticism,  too, 
sucli  doubt  has  small  effect  on  anything  but  the 
temper  of  people  who  are  not  disposed  to  share  it. 
To  the  doubters,  such  views  as  have  been  set  forth 
in  this  study  may  perhaps  seem  pathetically  erro- 
neous. To  believers,  on  the  other  hand,  certain 
obvious  coincidences  between  these  views  and  the 
recorded  facts  may  perhaps  seem  fortifying  if  not 
convincing. 

In  the  first  place,  of  course,  we  must  assume  that 
William  Shakspere  happened  to  be  what  many  another 
man  of  humble  origin  has  been  before  and  since,  —  a 
man  of  genius.  In  the  second  place,  as  we  saw  perhaps 
most  clearly  when  we  studied  the  Sonnets,  the  man's 
temperament,  for  all  his  genius,  was  strongly  indivi- 
dual, —  different  from  that  of  any  contemporary,  or 
indeed  of  anybody  else  at  all.  In  the  third  place,  as 
our  whole  course  of  study  has  shown  us,  his  artistic 
development  from  beginning  to  end  was  perfectly  nor- 
mal. In  the  fourth  place,  his  two  most  marked  traits 
as  an  artist  are  botli  unmistakable  and  persistent : 
from  beginning  to  end  he  displayed  a  liabit  of  mind 
which  made  less  distinction  than  is  generally  con- 
ceivable between  words  and  the  concepts  for  which 
words  stand ;  and  his  imaginative  power,  in  many 
aspects  unlimited,  always  exerted  itself  chiefly  in 
matters  of  detail,  —  most  of  all  in  the  creation  of 
uniquely  individual   characters.     In  mere  invention, 


WILLIAM   SMAKSPERE  421 

in  what  is  vulgarly  called  originality  and  what  really 
means  instinctive  straying  from  fact,  he  was  weaker 
than  hundreds  of  lesser  men. 

Given  these  facts,  there  is  a  marked  correspondence 
between  the  conjectural  chronology  of  his  work  and 
the  recorded  facts  of  his  life.  What  little  is  known 
of  him  up  to  the  time  of  Greene's  allusion  in  1592 
indicates  that,  in  country  and  in  city  alike,  he  had 
during  the  first  twenty-eight  years  of  his  life  rather 
unusual  opportunities  for  varied  experience  ;  and  a 
distinct  motive  for  making  the  most  of  his  chances 
to  better  his  condition.  The  experience  of  these  ex- 
perimental years  began  to  bear  fruit  with  the  Mid- 
summer  NigMs  Dream.  At  the  time  to  which  we 
assigned  the  Merchant  of  Veniee  and  Henry  IV.,  the 
process  of  fruition  had  gone  far  enough  to  establish 
him  as  for  the  moment  the  ablest  dramatic  writer 
in  England.  Here,  on  the  one  hand,  the  records  show 
him  beginning  to  re-establish  his  family  at  Stratford  ; 
and  a  little  later  Meres's  allusion  proves,  what  any 
one  might  have  inferred,  that  he  had  actually  won 
professional  recognition.  With  the  exceptional  pub- 
lication of  1600  came  the  climax  of  his  career.  Later 
we  found  him  no  longer  merely  an  artist,  but  a  poet 
deeply  stirred  by  such  emotions  as  should  normally 
have  come  to  him  had  the  conjectural  story  of  the 
Sonnets  been  substantially  true.  ]\Ieauwhile  he  pro- 
duced the  great  tragedies ;  and  all  the  time,  with  the 
growing  prosperity  which  such  work  should  have  in- 
volved, he  kept  strengthening  the  position  of  his  family 


422  WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE 

in  their  country  home.  About  1609  came  the  break 
in  his  creative  power,  at  a  moment  when  professional 
competition  was  stronger  than  it  had  ever  been  be- 
fore. After  that,  the  actual  records  show  him  no 
longer  connected  with  professional  life,  but  retiring 
more  and  more  into  the  comfortable  ease  of  a  country- 
gentleman.     And  so  came  the  end. 

At  first  glance,  of  course,  the  two  records  still  look 
incompatible.  They  have  in  common,  however,  a  trait 
which  to  many  minds  may  well  seem  the  most  pro- 
foundly characteristic  of  all.  Throughout  Shakspere's 
career  his  imagination,  for  all  its  power,  was  concen- 
trated on  matters  of  detail.  He  created  a  greater 
number  and  variety  of  living  characters  than  any  other 
writer  in  modern  literature.  He  made  innumerable 
final  phrases.  Ever  and  again,  by  patient  and  re- 
peated experiment  with  familiar  motives,  he  com- 
bined old  materials  in  constantly  fresh  and  lastingly 
beautiful  artistic  effects.  To  a  degree  hardly  paral- 
leled, however,  he  was  free  from  vagaries.  Through- 
out his  career,  one  may  almost  say,  what  he  really 
and  constantly  did  was  this :  instead  of  soaring  into 
the  clouds  or  the  ether,  he  looked  calmly  about  him, 
took  account  of  what  material  was  at  hand,  and  with 
the  utmost  possible  economy  of  invention  decided  what 
might  be  done  with  it  and  disposed  of  it  accordingly. 
Among  imaginative  artists  he  is  unique  for  practical 
prudence. 

In  the  conduct  of  his  life,  as  the  records  reveal  it, 
precisely  the  same  trait  is  manifest.     The  problem 


WILLIAM   SIIAK8PERE  423 

before  him,  as  a  man,  in  1587,  was  one  which  most 
men  find  insohible.  The  son  of  a  ruined  country 
tradesman,  and  saddled  with  a  wife  and  three  chil- 
dren, his  business  at  twenty-three  was  so  to  conduct 
his  life  that  he  might  end  it  not  as  a  laborer  but  as 
a  gentleman.  After  five-and-twenty  years  of  steady 
work  this  end  had  been  accomplished. 

Grossly  material  it  is  the  fashion  to  call  such  aspi- 
ration and  such  success  as  this.  No  doubt  there  is 
much  to  warrant  such  a  contemptuous  slur  on  self- 
made  men.  Personally  such  people  are  often  unlovely, 
scarred  and  seamed  by  the  struggles  of  a  contest  for 
which  their  critics  are  more  than  often  too  feeble- 
Even  though  the  self-made  man  of  petty  commerce 
seem  a  prosaic  fact,  however,  the  real  trait  which 
has  raised  him  above  his  fellows  is  a  trait  which  his 
critics  as  a  rule  so  lack  that  they  honestly  fail  to 
appreciate  its  existence.  What  the  successful  trades- 
man has  really  done  is  to  perform  a  feat  of  construc- 
tive imagination  every  whit  as  marvellous,  if  not  so 
beautiful,  as  the  work  of  any  artist  or  poet.  Facing 
the  actual  world  as  he  sees  it,  all  against  him,  he 
has  made  in  his  mind,  perhaps  unwittingly,  an  image 
of  some  state  of  things  not  yet  in  existence :  a  popu- 
lar demand  for  some  new  commodity,  it  may  be,  or  a 
sudden  shift  of  values.  Acting  on  this  perception, 
to  which  less  imaginative  people  are  blind,  he  has 
outstripped  others  in  the  race  for  fortune.  To  put 
the  matter  perhaps  extravagantly,  what  vulgar  criti- 
cism would  call  grossly  material   success  really  In- 


424  \\aLLIAM   SHAKSPERE 

volves  a  feat  of  creative  imagination  in  certain  aspects 
more  wonderful  than  any  other  known  to  human  ex- 
perience ;  for  while  the  creative  artist  is  bound  only 
to  imitate  the  divine  imagination  which  controls  the 
universe,  the  man  who  achieves  practical  success  is 
bound  so  to  share  that  divine  imagination  as  for 
a  while  even  to  share,  too,  the  prophetic  foresight 
of  divinitv. 

Such  a  material  achievement  as  Shakspere's,  then, 
involves  an  imaginative  feat  quite  as  wonderful,  if  not 
80  rare,  as  the  imaginative  feat  involved  in  the  crea- 
tion of  Shakspere's  works.  Granting  this,  as  all  who 
honestly  appreciate  it  surely  must,  we  may  see  in  the 
peculiar  concreteness  of  Shakspere's  artistic  imagina- 
tion a  trait  which  instead  of  contradicting  the  record  of 
his  life  goes  as  far  as  any  one  fact  can  go  to  confirm 
it.  Applied  to  the  stage  by  which  he  was  forced  to 
make  his  way,  his  peculiar  imaginative  power  pro- 
duced the  marvellous  characters  and  plirases  which 
make  his  work  almost  a  part  and  parcel  of  the  divine 
creation.  Applied  to  the  material  facts  of  life,  this 
same  concrete  imagination  so  controlled  and  grouped 
and  composed  and  mastered  them  that  a  life-time 
of  honest  work  resulted  in  just  such  achievement 
as  throughout  English  history  has  been  the  general 
ideal  of  honest,  simple-hearted  Englishmen. 

Life  and  work  alike,  then,  if  we  will  but  look  at 
them  together,  tell  the  same  story.  Both  begin 
simply,  carelessly,  trivially.  Both  pass  through  a 
period  of  growing  impulse  and  aspiration.     To  both 


WILLIAM  SHAKSPERE  425 

alike  —  if  for  a  moment  we  may  pass  from  records 
and  take  for  granted  that,  whatever  the  actual  story 
of  the  Sonyiets,  the  Sonnets  are  spiritually  true  — 
come  fierce  buffets.  Both  alike,  after  years  of 
struggle  and  of  conquest,  fade  into  peace. 


AUTHORITIES,  ETC. 


The  standard  text  is  that  of  the  Cambridge  Shakespeare.  This 
is  virtually  reproduced  in  the  single-volume  Globe  Shakespeare, 
to  which  all  the  references  in  this  book  are  made.  The  type  of  the 
Globe  edition,  however,  is  too  small  for  general  reading. 

For  such  purposes  as  are  considered  in  this  book  —  purposes 
not  concerned  with  textual  criticism  —  any  well-printed  edition 
will  serve. 

The  photographic  reproductions  of  the  quartos  are  convenient. 

Furness's  Variorum  Shakespeare  is  beyond  criticism,  as  far  as 
it  ha.s  gone. 

Rolfe's  notes  are  convenient  and  compendious  ;  so  are  those  of 
the  Henry  Irving  Shakespeare. 

Schmidt's  Shakespeare  Lexicon  is  the  standard  dictionary. 

Mr.  John  Bartlett's  forthcoming  Concordance  will  doubtless 
supplant  all  others. 

The  commentaries  directly  used  in  composing  this  book  are 
referred  to  in  the  notes. 

To  present  anything  like  an  adequate  bibliography  of  Shaks- 
pere  would  require  a  large  volume.  Whoever  wishes  to  study 
the  subject  in  detail  will  find  an  admirable  guide  in  the  printed 
catalogues  of  the  Barton  Collection  in  the  Boston  Public  Library. 
These  may  conveniently  be  supplemented  by  the  exhaustive  bib- 
liographies published  from  time  to  time  in  the  Shakspere  Jahrhuch. 
Taken  together,  these  authorities  will  direct  attention  to  almost  all 
books  on  Shakspere  and  his  times  which  are  accessible  to  the  gen- 
eral public. 


INDEX. 


In  this  Index  no  attempt  has  been  made  to  analyze  the  regular  discussions 
of  the  separate  works  of  Shakspere,  to  which  any  one  desiring  knowledge 
of  them  would  naturally  turn.  All  mentions  of  these  works,  and  of  charac- 
ters therein,  which  do  not  occur  in  the  regular  discussions,  have  been 
noted. 

The  works  of  Shakspere  are  entered  alphaljctitaliy  under  the  head  of 
Shakspere  ;  and  the  characters  are  entered  alpiiabetically  under  the  heads 
of  the  plays  in  which  they  occur. 

When  works  of  other  autiiors  are  mentioned,  they  are  similarly  entered 
alphabetically  under  the  heads  of  their  writers. 

The  term  seq.  is  used  to  indicate  that  the  matter  in  question  is  mentioned 
on  more  than  two  consecutive  pages. 


Activity  of  intellect,  abnormal  in 
Shakspere,  257.  262.  268,  26!},  283, 
29.3.  301,  310,  324,  331,  334,  339, 
340,  342,  418.     Cf.  Insanity. 

Actors  in  Shakspere's  time,  33,  35, 
AOseq.,  113,  367.  382,  413. 

Alneid,  Surrey's  translation  of,  26, 
53. 

Alliteration  in  Elizabethan  litera- 
ture, 55,  68.  Cj.  Euphuism;  Ver- 
bal ingenuity. 

Aphorism  m  Elizabethan  literature, 
28,  55,  201,  203,  399.  See  Phi- 
losophy. 

Archaism  evident  in  Shakspere's 
plays.  77.  122,  129,  134.  1.36.  137, 
142,  156,  165.  167,  295,  308,  416. 

Ariosto,  190. 

Aristocracy  set  forth  by  Shakspere, 
329  ieq. 


Armada,  75. 
Armin,  414. 
Art,    Shakspere's    mastery  of.    106. 

112,   187,  236,  253  seq.,  299,  308, 

338,  396.  397. 
Artistic  impulse,  chiefly  as  revealed 

bv  Shakspere,   104,  io9,  115,  lUO, 

215,  219,  303,  324.  334,   338,  341, 

342.  349.  416,  417. 
Artistic  individuality,  48. 
Artistic   purpose,  growth  of  Shaks- 
pere's, 100,  103,  191.  220,  256. 
Artistic  significance  of  Hamlet,  256 
Ascham,  Roger,  26.  27.  403. 
Atmosphere  in  plays,  86,  90,  94.  107 

seq.,  113,  126.   146,   181,  200,  202. 

207,  235,  322,  350,  363,  369,  383, 

386      See  D.scription. 
Audiences  in  Shakspere's  time,  33, 

154,  274,  295,  309. 


430 


INDEX. 


Bacon,  Francis,  98,  218,  343,  393, 
394,  404,  406. 

Baudello,  116,  190. 

Beaumarchais,  180. 

Beaumont,  Francis,  20,  413,  414. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  72,  159,  343, 
344,  393,  394,  408,  412. 

Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle, 

159,  393. 
Maid's  Tragedy,  303,  393. 

Belleforest,  251,  254. 

Bible,  27,  393,  394. 

Blank  verse,  26,  35,  76,  122, 186, 320, 
.357,  380,  391. 

B-^ihemians  in  Shakspere's  time,  34, 
41,172,413,414.     See  Actors. 

Bolingbroke,  173,  290. 

Box  and  Cox,  179. 

Brooke,  Arthur,  116,  118,  119,  120, 
126,  128,  201. 

Brooke,  Stopford,  Primer  of  Eng- 
lish Literature,  23. 

Burbage,  46. 

Calvinism,  269,  273,  305,  311. 

Camden,  343. 

Campion,  343. 

Ctnturie  of  Pray se,  21. 

Chapman,  George,  20,  56,  217  seq., 
223,  271,  343,  393,  404,  408,  412, 
415. 

Bussy  d' Ambois,  241,  378. 

Character,  development  of,  in  Shaks- 
pere's plays,  90,  93,  94,  96,  107, 
109,  111,  124,  129,  130,  135,  141, 
148,  149,  160,  177,  186,  193,  201, 
212,  213,  252,  281,  296  seq.,  305, 
306,  308,  323,  324,  328,  331,  336, 
337,  341,  349,  350,  363,  369,  383, 
386,  388,  416,  422. 

Chaucer,  24,  105,  271. 

Chettle,  Henry,  10. 

Chronicle-history,  45,  71,  74  seq., 
81,  82,  88,  93,  129,  130,  133.  134, 
136,  143,  144,  164  seq.,  175.  180, 
189,  194,  213,  236,  240,  242,  293, 
295,  303,  313,  326,  327,  336,  337, 
378. 


Chronology  of  Sh&kspere's  works, 
4  seq.,  97,  101,  175,  210  seq.,  335, 
349,  355,  388,  392,  421. 

Cinthio's  Hecatommitht,  263,  278. 

Clarendon,  344. 

Clowns  in  Shakspere's  plavs,  85,  87, 
94,  107,  109,  111,  148,  203,  383. 

Coke  on  Littleton,  400. 

Coleridge,  396. 

Collaboration  in  play-writing,  71 
seq.,  82,  88,  129,  158,"  159,  161,  303, 
388. 

Comedv,  45,  75,  88,  143,  144,  153, 
162,  "l64,  190,  213,  216,  236,  270, 
305,  336,  354. 

Comic  dialect,  178,  187. 

Competitors,  Shakspere's  profes- 
sional. 394.     See  Environment. 

Concreteness  of  Shakspere's  imagi- 
nation, 424.  See  Character;  Econ- 
omy of  invention;  Words  and 
ideas. 

Confusion  of  identity,  as  a  dramatic 
motive,  86,  90,  95,  107,  108,  147, 
148,  179,  207,  248,  265,  337,  361, 
383,  416,  417. 

Constable,  98. 

Contemporaries  of  Shakspere.  See 
Environment. 

Contention  bttwixt  the  two  famous 
Houses  of  Yorke  and  Lancaster, 
First  Part  of  the,  70,  79,  80. 

Corneille,  317. 

Coryat,  393. 

Creative  imagination,  chiefly  as 
revealed  bv  Shakspere,  103,  115, 
123,  127,  ]'28,  131,  142,  150,  156, 
166,  167,  171,  174,  175,  180,  194, 
201,  202,  213,  219,  257,  324,  334, 
337,  338,  341,  343,  349,  350,  364, 
375,  392,  416,  423.  See  Artisti; 
impulse. 

Criticism,  a  general  scheme  of,  90. 
See  Atmosphere;  Character;  Plot 

Daniel,  Samuel,  98,  217,  222,  393, 

Delia,  Sonnets  to,  98,  222. 
Davidson,  343. 


INDEX. 


431 


Davies,  Sir  John,  217,  404. 

Death  set  forth    by   Shakspere,  126,  [ 
267,  301,  306,  311,  312.  i 

Decadence   of  power,   symptoms  of,  ' 
in  Shakspere,  321,  351,  357,  361,  I 
364,  377,  381,  392,  418.     See  Ex- 
haustion; Relaxation;  Weakness. 

Decameron,  93,  356. 

Dekker.  Thomas.  20,  218,  219,  343, 
344,  393,  394.  408,  412. 
Honest  Whore,  378. 

Democracy  set    forth  by  Shakspere, 
81,  243,   328,    329.    333,  366,    373,  ; 
383.  { 

Denouement  studied  in    Shakspere's  i 
later  works,    358,    361,    368,   377, 
378. 

Depression  set  forth  by  Shakspere, 
334.     See  Spiritual  suffering. 

Description,  90.     See  Atmosphere. 

Despair  expressed  in  Macbeth,  305, 
313. 

Disguised  heroine,  38,  95,  147 /eg., 
202,  207.  265,  362. 

Donne,  John,  393,  394. 

Double,  or  consecutive,  plays,  138, 
241,  378,  379.  See  Chronicle  His- 
tory; Tragedies  of  Revenge. 

Doubtful  plays,  perhaps  not  genuine, 
50,  66,  70,  128,  157,  345,  387,  389, 
395. 

Doubts  as  to  genuineness  of  Shaks- 
pere's works,  419. 

Dowden.  Edward,  Primer  of  Shaks- 
pere, 7. 

Drama,  the  Elizabethan,  2,  3,  113, 
130,  407.     See  Environment. 

Dravton,  Michael,  98,  114,  181,  217 
seq.,  222,  393,  404,  408. 
Jdea's  Mirror,  217,  222. 

Dryden's  All  for  Love,  314,  315, 
316,  319. 

Economy  of  invention,  Shakspere's, 
87,  95,  147.  192,  194,  202.  207,209, 
216,  217.  220,  248,  263  seq.,  279, 
287,  .{37,  353,  356.  .381.  .366,  379, 
416,  422.     See  Recapitulation. 


Edward  III.,  75,  395. 

Effort  palpable  in  Shakspere's  later 
plavs,  361,  363,  364,  374,  376,  377, 
387",  388,  392. 

Elizabeth,  17,  343. 

Eliz  ibethan  Ilnmtet,  253. 

Elizabethan  narrative,  53. 

Elizabethan  voyages,  365,  368. 

Environment,  Shakspere's  literary, 
40  seq.,  45,  82,  97,  217,  343,  393, 
412. 

Euphuism,  28,  29,  38,  44,  55,  85.  122, 
134,  135. 

Evolution  of  art.  2,  401  seq.  (see 
Imagination;  Fact);  of  English 
literature,  218.  219,  415. 

Exhaustion  of  Shakspere's  power, 
341,  344,  351,  353.  See  Deca- 
dence ;  Relaxation ;  Weakness. 

Experiment,  linguistic,  in  early  Eliz- 
abethan literature,  26  ;  palpable 
in  Shakspere's  work,  87,  88,  92, 
96,  100,  101, 107,  129,  157,  336  «g., 
341,  345,  351„353,  378,  419. 


Fact,  sense  of:  a  factor  in  literary 
evolution,  402,  411;  palpable  in 
Shakspere,  235,  391,  417  seq.  See 
Concreteness;  Imagination. 

Fairfax's  Tasso,  218. 

Fairies,  114. 

Famous  Victories  of  Henry  V.,  163, 
165,  169. 

Fancy,  375.     See  Imagination. 

Fashion,  literary,  about  1587,  26, 
52. 

Fate,  sense  of,  in  Shakspere's  plays, 
243,   250,  259,  269,   270,  272  seq. 
277,  300,   301,  305,  321,  330,  33d, 
386,  418. 

Field.  414. 

Fitton,  Mrs.  Mary,  224  seq. 

Fleay,  F.  G  ,  Biographical  Chronicle 
of  the  Enylish  Drama,  and  Chron- 
icle History  of  English  Dramatic 
Literature,  23;  Life  and  Work  oj 
Shake .>jjea re,  7. 


432 


INDEX. 


Fletcher,  John,  20,  318,  387,  413,  414. 

Florio,  343,  365. 

Folio  of  1623,  4,  17. 

Folk-lore,  105,  114. 

Fools,  203,  366. 

Ford,  John,  394. 

Forman,   Dr.  Simon,  302,  308,   355, 

377. 
Foxe,  John,  27,  138,   168,  387,   400, 

403. 
Fuller,  344. 
Furnivall's  Leopold  Shakspere,  7. 

Gammer  GuHon^s  Needle,  32. 
Generic  personages,  177.     See  Char- 
acter. 
Genius,  2,  396,  419,  420. 
Ghosts    in    Shakspere's   plays,   241, 

243,  252,  307.     See  Supernatural. 
Globe  Theatre,  17,  19,  302,  309,  377, 

387. 
Golding's  Ovid,  27,  51,  105. 
Gorboduc,  32. 
Gosson,  Stephen,  41  seq. 
Gower's  Confessio  Amantis,  345. 
Greene,  Robert,  9,  10.  20,  23,  34,  40. 

43,  71,  74,   98,  159,   167,  172,  217, 

219,  381,  385,  414,  421. 

Green's  Groatsworth  of  Wit,  9, 

37,  73. 
Pandosto,  ZTI . 
Groups  of  Shakspere's  plays,  50.  97 

seq.,    103  seq.,   210  seq.,' 2^?,,   335 

seq.,  355. 

Hakluyt's  Voyages,  28,  98,  218. 

Hall,  Edward,  71,  76,  387. 

Hall,  Joseph,  344,  394. 

Hall,  Dr.  John  (m.  Susanna  Shaks- 
pere), 18. 

HaUiwell-Phillips's  Outlines  of  the 
Life  of  Shakespeare,  7. 

Harvey,  Gabriel,  29,  98. 

Hathawa}',  Anne  (m.  Wm.  Shaks- 
pere), 8. 

Heroic  ideals  of  character  in  Shaks- 
pere, 184  seq.,  197  seq.,  203,  272, 
274.     iSee  Character. 


Heywood,  Thomas,  20,  218,  219,  343, 

344,  408,  412,  414. 

Fair  Maid  of  the  West,  378. 
Historic  fact,  carelessness  of,  in  Eliz- 
abethan plays,  409  n. 
Historical  fiction,  167,  180,  194,  314, 

320,  327. 
Historical   forces,  Shakspere's  sense 

of,  78,  173,  216,  243,  321,  337.    See 

Fate. 
Historical   literature   in  Shakspere's 

time,  75.     See  Chronicles;  Holin- 

shed;  Ralegh. 
Historical   position   of   Shakspere  in 

Englisli  literature,  2,  415  seq. 
Holinshed,  28,  71,  76,  128,  133,  163, 

186,  188,  201,  288,  293,  302,  327, 

355,  387,  400. 
Hooker,  217,  218,  403. 
Hortatory  purpose,  181,  182. 
Hudibras,  170. 
Humour   in    the  Elizabethan   sense, 

161,   186,  328,  331,  332,  334,  341, 

349,  350. 

Idealism  expressed  in  Shakspere's 
works,  232,  234,  366,  372,  386. 

Idiomatic  metrical  forms,  226. 

Imagination  a  factor  in  literary  evo- 
lution, 402,  411 ;  palpable  in  Shak- 
spere, 375,  417,  418,  422,  424.  Cf. 
Creative  imagination. 

Imitation,  the  earliest  form  of  art, 
401;  in  Shakspere's  early  work,  70. 
See  Economy  of  invention. 

Inductions  on  the  Elizabethan  stage, 
111,  146,  159,  160,  199,  216,  368. 

Insanity,  Elizabethan  view  of,  155, 
294:  set  forth  by  Shakspere,  253, 
260,  283,  294,  295,  307,  382;  symp- 
toms of,  in  Shakspere,  258,  283,  307, 
310,  339,  340,  418.  See  Activity 
of  intellect. 

Interludes,  31.  33,  35,  130,  202. 

Ironv  set  forth  by  Shakspere,  194, 
216,  243,  245,  246,  250,  262,  263, 
269,  277,  281,  299,  301,  311,  331, 
333,  338  seq.,  417,  418. 


INDEX. 


433 


James  T.,  17,  343. 

Jesters,  -203. 

Jews,  Elizabethan  view  of,  152,  153. 
Jonson.  Ben,  14,   20,  106,  218,   219, 
223,  295,    343,  344,  349,  393,  408, 
412,  414. 

Bart  ft  ohm  ew  Fair,  66,  170. 
Evtry  Man  in  his  Humour,  14, 

183,  184. 
Poetaster,  223,  343. 


Kempe,  Will,  225. 
King's  Players,  17. 
Kyd,  Thomas,  71,  88,  219,  251. 
Jeronimo,  6G,  241,  295. 


Learning  of  Shakspere,  185,  396, 

400. 
Leicester,  Earl  of,  his  players,  23. 
Licentiousness,  of   later  drama,  414; 

Shakspere's  freedom  from,  89,  146, 

265,  347. 
Light  endings  to  ver.ses,  320,  326. 
Limitations,  of  Elizabethan  literature, 

406;  of  Shakspere,  216,  337,  411, 

417,  420. 
Literature,  English,  in  the  time  of 

Shakspere,    23-30,    392,    403,  406. 

See  Environment. 
Lodge,  Thomas,  217,  219. 

Rusalijnde,  199,  200,  201. 
Love,  sacred  and  profane,  229;   set 

forth   bv  Shakspere,  57  seq.,  126, 

151,   198,  202,  204,  216,  229,  249, 

325,  338.     See  Women. 
Lovers  set  forth  bv  Shakspere,  249, 

264. 
Lyly.  John,  37,  40,  44,  83,  84,  88,  98, 

219,  366,  403. 

Cupid  and  Campaspe.  24,  39. 
£uphues,  28,  29,  30,  37.  40,  200, 
201. 
Lyric    verse   in    Elizabethan    litera- 
ture,  36,    39   seq.,   44,    122.      -See 

Operatic     traits     of     Elizabethan 

plays. 


Machiavelli,  410. 
Madness.     See  Insanity. 
Manners,  Elizabethan,  276. 
Manningham,    John,    diary  of,  46, 

205. 
Marlowe,  Christopher,  56-62,  98-100 ; 
mentioned,  11,  20,  23,  34,  40,  43, 
44,  69  stq.,  76,  88,  129,  136,  167, 
172,  212,  217  seq.,  239,  407,  411, 
413,  414. 

Edward    II.,  75,   99,  100,    133, 

136. 
Dr.  Faust  us,  99. 
Hero  and  Leander,  56  seq.,  9& 

199,  218. 
Jew  of  Malta,  69,  70,  99. 
Tamburlaine,  35,  36,  39,  70,  98, 
99. 
Marston,  John,  219,  343,  344,  412. 
Antr.nio  and  Mellida,  241. 
Antonio's  Revenge,  378. 
^lartm  Marprelate,  98. 
Mary  Stuart,  75. 
Masques,  178,  202. 
Massinger,  Philip,  .387,  .394,  415. 
Men  of  letters,  40,  222. 
Meres,  Francis,  important  allusion  to 

Shakspere,  14,  1.37,  211,  421. 
Mermaid  Tavern,  413. 
Middletoii,   Thomas,    ISO,   218,   219, 
302,  343.  344,  394,  408,  412. 
Changding,  155,  294. 
Chaste  Maid  in  Cheapside,  170, 

180. 
Witch,  304. 
Milton,  John,  105,  344. 
Miracle  Plays,  31,  33,  75,  165. 
Mirror  for  Magistrates,  393. 
Monday,  414. 

Montemayor,  Diana  of,  92. 
Moralities,  31.  33,  35,  130,  202. 
Mvsterv,  sense  of,  set  forth  by  Shak». 
pere,'l27,  256,  259,  260,  262,  263, 
269,  301,  305. 


Nash,  Thomas,  98,  217,  219. 
New  Place,  13,  43. 


434 


INDEX. 


Nicholson,  74. 

Normality  of  Shakspere's  develop- 
ment, 6,  349,  420. 

North,  Sir  Thomas,  his  translation  of 
Plutarch's  Livts,  27,  105,  240, 
242,  313,  314,  318,  322,  323,  326, 
327,  345,  400. 

Novels,  Italian,  93. 

Novelty,  crrving  for,  in  Shaks- 
pere's time,  26,  27,  29,  30,  38,  39, 
44,  45.  55,  84,  85,  213.  See  Verbal 
ingenuity. 


Observation,  Shakspere's  power  of, 
94,  101,  102,  212,  213,  416. 

Operatic  traits  of  Elizabethan  plays, 
78,  84,  130.  142.  202,  388,  390. 

Originality,  developed  by  Shakspere, 
77,  82,  95,  101. 

Ovid,  53,  89.    See  Golding. 


Passion,  set  forth  by  Shakspere,  231, 

236.  243,  245,  263,  300,    301,  311, 

326,  334,  341. 
Passionate  Pilgrim,  16,  221. 
Pathos,  Shakspere's  sense  of,  300. 
Patriotism  in  Shakspere's  time,   75. 

See  Henry  V. 
Pavnter's   Palace  of  Pleasure,   27, 

5'l.  116,  118    seq.,    126,   128,   246, 

345,  400,  403. 
Pecorone  of  Sir  Giovanni  Fiorentino, 

144. 
Peele,  George,  20,  23,  34,  40,  43,  71, 

159,  167,  217,  219,  414. 
David  and  Bethsabe,  35. 
Edward  /.,  75. 
Pembroke,  Earl  of,  224  seq. 
Periods  of  Shakspere's  career,  415. 

See  Groups  of  Shakspere's  plays. 
Petrarch,  25,  226. 
Philosophy,  chief! v  as  set   forth   b_v 

Shakspere,  232,  269,  274,  291,  327, 

333,    372,  374,  393,  396,  399,  419. 

See  Aphorism. 


Phrase-making,    55,    56,    64.      See 

Verbal  ingenuity. 
Pickwick  Papers,  170. 
Plausibility,    development      of,     in 

Shakspere's    plays,    96,  110,    126, 

132,  145,  156,  164,    175,  189,  191, 

349,  384. 
Plautus,  89,  90,  91. 
Amphitryon.  88. 
Menechmi,  12,  88,  205, 
Playwrights     in    Shakspere's    time. 

See  Environment. 
Play-writing,  49,  72,  125,  189.     See 

Collaboration. 
Plots  of  plays,  90,  93,  109,  123,  138, 

145,  159,  178,  281,  296    seq.,  349, 

358«ey.,361,  368,  386. 
Plutarch,  241.     See  North. 
Pseudo-classic    plays,   and  popular, 

32,  33,  35. 
Publication    unfashionable  in  1587, 

26. 
Puritanism  burlesqued,  170. 


QuiNEY,  RiCHAKD,  Correspondence 
about  Shakspere,  13,  14,  163. 

Quiney,  Thomas,  married  Judith 
Shakspere,  20. 


Race-conflict  symbolized  in  Cali- 
ban, 373. 

Ralegh,  Sir  Walter,  404-406;  men- 
tioned, 98,  217. 

Discovery  of  Guiana,  217,  365. 
History  of  the  World,  404  seq. 
Ralph  Roister  Doister,  32. 

Rant  in  Elizabethan  plays,  35,  39, 
68,  74,  78,  79,  139,  187,  274,  295. 

Recapitulation  in  Shak.'^pere's  works, 
43. 172.209.  264,  265,  325,  340,  362, 
360,  376,  381,  422.  See  Economy 
of  invention. 

Reconciliation,  Shakspere's  alleged 
preaching  of,  852,  353,  372. 

Relaxation  of  Shakspere's  power, 
324,  334,  340,  342,  343,  -384.     See 


r^DEX. 


435 


Decadence;     Exhaustion;     Weak- 
ness. 
Renaissance  in  England,  53,  83,  89. 
Repartee,     86.      -Sec    Wit;    Verbal 

iiifjenuity. 
Rhyme     in     Shakspere's   plays,   83, 

122,  247.     See  Verse  tests. 
Riche,  Barnaby  :  Apolonius  and  Silla, 

205. 
Romance,    348.    352,    354,    368,    385, 

388. 
Romantic  feeling,  208.  216,  236,  337, 

362.     See  Romance;  Women. 
Rowie}-,  414. 
Ryland,  F.,  Chronological  Outlines  oj 

Enghih  Literature,  23. 

Sanity  of  artistic  temperament,  236, 
258,  301. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  167. 

Self-confidence  of  poets,  223. 

Self-deception,  a  frequent  dramatic 
motive  of  Shakspere.  179,  193  seq., 
208,  248,  265,  281,  337,  362,  382, 
417.     Cf.  Confusion  of  identity. 

Self-made  men,  423. 

Self-revelation,  in  works  of  art,  229; 
in  Shakspere's  works.  225,  226,  264, 
286,  301.  310,  326,  331  stq. 

Sensitiveness  of  Shakspere's  tem- 
perament, 225,  230  seq. 

Shakspere,  Hamnet,  8,  12,  141. 

Shakspere,  John,  7.  12,  18,  43. 

Shakspere,  Judith  (m.  T.  Quincv), 
8,  20. 

Shakspere,  Susanna  (m  John  Hall), 
8,  18. 

Shakspere,  William,  life,  7-22; 
about  1593,  97-102;  from  1593  to 
1600,  210-220:  from  1600  to  1608. 
335-344;  about  1612,  392-394;  in 
general,  1-6,  39,5-425. 

All-t    Well    That    Ends    Well, 
246-2.50;   mentioned,  202  aey.. 
300,  .125,  3-15,  .3.39,  352. 
Bertram,  265. 
Diana,  265. 
Parolles,    265. 


Shakspere  (continued). 

Antony  and  Cleopatra,  313-326; 
mentioned,  16,  327,  329,  331, 
334,  335,  339,  340,  343,  384, 
418. 
Cleopatra,  113.  340. 
At  You  Like  If,  199-205;  men- 
tioned, 16,  208,  209,  212,  216, 

352,  366  Stq..  374,  .383. 
Jaques,  214. 
Ph(jeb«,  248. 

Rosalind,  207,  214,  248,  325. 

Touchstone.  208,  214. 
Comedy  of  Errors,  88-92 ;  men 
tioned,    12,    15,   94,  105,  107, 
111,  205,   207,  208,   211,  352, 

353.  367. 

.£milia,  195.  353,  383. 
Droniios,  203. 
Coriolnnus,  326-334;  mentioned. 
50,  67,  81.  336,  339,  341,  342, 
353,  367.  418. 
Cymbeline,  355-364;  mentioned, 
19,  50.  347,  352,  366  seq.,  370, 
371,374,  376,   377,  381,  392. 
Imogen.  207,  370,  382. 
Posthumus,  382. 
Hamlet,  2b0-262;  mentioned.  16, 
69,    240.    263.   264.    268.  269. 
275,  284.  286.    300.  302.  .307, 
310,   312,  324,   .325,  331,    335. 
339,  340. 

Hamlet,  207,  283,  295,  301, 

.•510,  312,  372. 
Horatio.  312. 
Ophelia,  311. 
Polonius.  240. 
Queen,  311. 
Henry     IV..     162-175  ;     men- 
tioned. 13,  15.  16.  49,  176.  179. 
181,   187.    190,    191,    194,   201. 
211   seq.,   216,   221,   314,   383, 
413.  421. 

B.inliilph,  44. 
Poll  Tearsheet.  277. 
Falstaff.  43,  44.  208.  213.  214, 
248.    2.'i6.    26.^.   283.    286, 
294.  340,  366.  383,  416. 


436 


INDEX. 


Shakspere  (continued). 

Gad.>hill,  44,  187. 

Hotspur,  76,  214. 

Pete,  44. 

Pistol,  248,  294. 

Poins,  187. 

Prince    Hal,    187,   214  (see 

Ihnry  V.). 
Quickly,  Mrs.,  44. 
Shallow,  383. 
Slender,  208. 
Etnry  V .,  180-190;  mentioned, 
4,   10,  77,  163,  175,  176,  198, 
211,  212,  214,  216,  286,    327, 
329. 

Henry  V.,  78. 
Henry    VL,   70-82;    mentioned, 
4,   9,   16,  34,    49,    83,  84,  87, 
99,  128,   130,    131,    212,    213, 
243.  328,  .329,  3.51,  389. 
Cade,  Jack,  328,  329. 
Eenry     VJIf.,    387-392  ;    men- 
tioned, 4,  19,  50,  3.55,  394. 
Katharine,  Queen,  382. 
KirKj  John,  137-143;   mentioned, 
144,  148,162,163,211,214,367. 
Arthur,  Prince,  382. 
Faulconbridge,      Bastard, 
256. 
Julius     C(esiir,    240-246;     men- 
tioned.  .50,  81,    2.50,   2.52,  202 
seq.,  280,  307,  327  seq.,  333,  335, 
339,  378. 
Brutus,  273. 
Cassias,  273. 
King  Lear,  287-301 ;  mentioned, 
10,  69,  284,  302,  306,  310,  324, 
325,  335.  350. 
Cordelia,  302. 
Goneril,  280,311. 
Rents,  312. 

Lear,  195,  310,  312,  372. 
Retail,  280,  311. 
Love's  Liiboiir's  Lost,  82-87; 
mentioned,  13,  15.  16,  90,  93, 
107,  111,  116,  122,  178,  19.3, 
195.  202,  211,  247,  276,  325, 
351,  383. 


Shakspere  (continued). 
Biron,  192,  193. 
Dull,  192,  203. 
Rosaline,  192,  193,  325. 
Love's  Labour  's  Wun,  15,   246, 

248,  335. 
Lucrece,   the    Rape    of,  51-65, 

mentioned,  11,  217. 
Macbeth,  302  313;  mentioned,  19, 
69,    324,    325,    331,    335,    339, 
340,  355,  356,  399,  418. 
Banquo,  113. 
Macbeth,  113,  372. 
Lady  Macbeth,  362. 
Afecisure  for    Measure,  263-270; 
mentioned,  248,   285  seq.,  300, 
325,  3.36,  352. 

Overdone,  Mrs.  277. 
Merchant    of    Venice,   144-157 ; 
mentioned,  13,  15,  16,  94,  143, 
159,  161,   163,    160,    180,    194, 
199,    201    seq.,    211,    214,  216, 
248,  286,  3.31,  350,  .352,  368, 421. 
Antonio,  208. 
Bassanio,  208. 
Jessica,  207. 
Nerissa,  207. 
Portia,   207,    214,   266,   325, 

337. 
Sliylock,  214,  266,  294. 
Merry    Wives  of  Windsor,  175- 
180  ;  mentioned,  10,  187,  194, 
195,  212,  214,  249,  383. 
Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  105- 
116  ;     mentioned,    15,    16,   50, 
117,   129,   1.32,  143,    146,    159, 
178,   180,    190,   194.    199,   202, 
211,  214  seq.,  2.38.  286,334,  341, 
,343,   367    seq.,  374,   383,  416, 
421. 

Pyrnmus  and    Thisbe,   116, 

276. 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing,  190- 

108;    mentioned.    10,    38,  199, 

20.3,   212  seq.,  216,    245,    246, 

331,  338,  352,  366,  417. 

Beatrice,   86,    203,   207,208, 
214,  325. 


INDEX. 


43- 


Shakspere  (continued). 

Benedick,  86,  203,  207,  208, 

214,  2G5. 
Claudio,  279,  301,  372. 
Dogberry,  203,  214. 
Hero,  279,  382,  383. 
Don  John,  279. 
Verges,  203. 
Othello,  278-287 ;  mentioned,  17, 
69,  272,    288,    300,    302,   303, 
310,  312,  324,  326,  335,  380. 
Cassio,  276. 
Desdemona,  272,  275,    276, 

300,311,  382. 
Emilia,  382. 
lago,  195,  3^0,  362. 
Othello,  195,   275,  283,  310 
seq.,  362,  382,  384. 
Pericles,   Prince  of  Tyre,  345- 
354;    mentioned,    16,    17,    50, 
361,362,  367,  368,  376,  393,  418. 
Marina,  367. 
Thaisa,  195,  353,  383. 
Richard     II.,    133-137:      men- 
tioned, 13,  15,   17,  34,  75,  142 
seq.,  173,  181,189,211.214,291. 
John  of  Gaunt.  166. 
Norfolk,  290. 
Richard    III.,    128-1-32;    men- 
tioned, 13,  15,  34,  46,  81,  99, 
133.  134,   141,    143,    144,  148, 
163,  189,   211,  214,   243,  307, 
367,  387. 

York,  Duke  of,  382. 
Kichard  HI.,  76,  214. 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  llG-128;  men- 
tioned, 1-3,  15,  16,  67,129,  l.'!2, 
140.  142,  14.3,    148,    161,   190, 
192,  201,  204,   207,   211,   213, 
214,  216,  237,  286,   328,   336, 
337,  416. 
Juliet,   195,   214,   311,  356, 

362. 
Mercutio,  166,  214,  265. 
Romeo,  214.  311. 
iSo«nff«  (Shakspere's),  221-2.37; 
mentioned,  15  scq.,  2fl.  40.  49, 
»0,  220,  239,  250,  264.  286,  30o| 


Shakspere  (continued). 

310,  325,  326,   338,   339,   393, 
417,  421,  425,  cf.  122. 
Taming  of  the  Shrew,  157-162; 
mentioned,  HI,  163,  180,  212, 
214,  216,  346. 
Tempest,  365-377;     raentionea. 
4,  19,  347,  348,  352,  353,  355, 
381,  385,  386,  392,  393,  399. 
Ariel,  382. 
Caliban,  385. 
Prospero,  385. 
Timon  of  Athtns,'i\b~ib'i:i  men- 
tioned, 50,  361,  393,  418. 
Titus  Andronicus,  66-70;    men- 
tioned,   11,  15,  16,  50,  71,  81 
seq.,   87,    140,    211,   213,    238, 
295,  345,  351,  389. 
Aaron,  195. 
Troilus  and    Cressida,  271-277; 
mentioned,  16,  278,  285,  286, 
300,  325,  335,  393. 
Cressida,  284,  285,  311. 
Twelfth  Night,  205-209;    men- 
tioned, 16,   50,    94,   212,   216, 
238,  325,    340,   352,    353,  363, 
367. 
Sir  Andrew  Aguecheek,  383 
Sir  Toby  Belch,  366. 
Malvolio,  195,  265. 
Olivia,  248. 
Viola,  248,  325,  337. 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,  92- 
96;    mentioned,  4,  15.  50.  88, 
101,  105,  107,    111.    112,  147, 
161,   162,  202,    211,    213,  238, 
248,  352. 
Julia,  207. 
Launce,  148,  203. 
Proteus,  107,  108. 
Speed,  148. 
Venus  and  Adonis,  51-65;  men- 
tioned. 11,  23,  97. 
Winter's    Tale,    377-387;   men- 
tioned, 19,  348,  352,  355,  392, 
393. 

Hermione,  195,  353. 
Shirley,  415. 


438 


INDEX. 


Sidney,  Sir  Philip,  26,  35,40,98,  217, 
222,'  226,  403. 

Arcadia,  26,  98,  200,  288. 
Astrophel  and  SttUa,  98,  222. 
Defence    of    Poesy,    otherwise 
Apology  for   Poetry,  32,   41, 
217,  352. 

Simplicity  of  great  art,  299,  363. 

Sonnets,  varieties  of,  226. 

Sources,  relation  of  Shakspere's 
works  to,  53,  seq.,  76,  89,  93,  106 
teq.,  117  seq.,  138,  145,  186,  188, 
242,  254,  314  seq.,  318  seq.,  323, 
367. 

Southampton,  Earl  of  11,  51. 

Southwell,  217. 

Speed,  John,  394. 

Spenser,  Edmund,  29,  98,  114,  217, 
318,  222,  226,  288,  403. 
Amoretti,  217,  222,  223. 
Faerie  Queene,  98, 190,  200,  217, 

226. 
Shepherd's  Calendar.  20. 

Spiritual  suffering  set  forth  by 
Shakspere,  236,  260,  269,  301,  311, 
338,  417. 

Spontaneity,  development  of,  in 
Shakspere,  143,  172,  174,  264,  .3-37, 
338,  363,  376,  384,  386,  393.  See 
Creative  imagination. 

Stationers'  Register,  5. 

Stowe,  28,  71,  76,  343. 

Sturlej',  Abraham,  13,  163. 

Style,  development  of  Shakspere's, 
58  seq.,  67,  80,  83,  116.  122,  125, 
126,  1.34,  140,  149,  156,  185,  186, 
213,  227,  245,  247.  253,  266  seq.. 
274,  285,  289  seq..  293,  .304  seq.,  308, 
320.  323,  326,  331  seq.,  337.  339, 
347,  350,  356,  370,  371,  374.  379, 
381,  386,  418,  422;  early  Eliza- 
bethan, 55.  See  Euphuism;  Nov- 
elty; Verbal  ingenuity. 

Supernatural  matters  in  Macbeth,  306 
$e^.     See  Ghosts. 

Surrey,  Earl  of,  24,  25, 53,  83, 226,  403. 

Symonds,  J.  A.,  Shakspere's  Pre- 
decessors, 23. 


Taverns  in  Shakspere's  time,  43, 
172.    See  Bohemia. 

Tayming  of  a  SItrowe,  157,  158. 

Temperament,  the  artistic,  3, 108,  126, 
157,  174,  215,  226  seq.,  236,  239, 
244,  257,  258,  261,  327,  338.  See 
Artistic  impulse;  Creative  imagi- 
nation. 

Text,  corruption  of,  188,  210. 

Theatre,  the  English,  in  Shakspere's 
time,  31-44,  123,  160,  183,  309,  413 
seq.  See  Actors;  Audiences;  In- 
ductions;   Operatic;  Kant. 

Theatre,  social  status  of,  40  seq.  See 
Bohemians. 

Thought,  Shakspere's  increasing  in- 
tensify of,  268,  342,  355.  Sea 
Activity  of  mtellect. 

Titus  and  Vespasian,  66. 

Tottel's  Miscellany,  25. 

Tourneur,  Cyril,  344,  394,  412. 

Tragedy,  45*  127,  136,  143,  144,  190, 
213,  216.  2.'i6,  242,  278,  296,  304, 
338,  342,    347,    352,354. 

Tragedy  of  blood,  68  seq.,  75, 88, 123, 
127,  252,  295. 

Tragedies  of  revenge,  241,  252. 

Transition  between  artistic  moods, 
242,  348,  351,  -353,418. 

Translation  the  actual  task  of  Eliza- 
bethan dramatists,  76.  82,  89,  93, 
117,  133,  138,  191.  209,  272,  293. 

Translations  from  foreign  languages 
in  Shakspere's  time.  27. 

Troublesome  Raifjne  of  John  King 
of  Knijland,  13"  seq.,  165. 

True  Tragedie  of  Richard  Duke  of 
Vorke.  etc.,  70.  74. 

Two  Noble  Kinsmen,  395. 

Typical  character  of  Shakspere  as 
an  artist,  2,  415,  419. 

Unities,  the  pseudo-classic,  91,  367, 

368. 
Usury,  Elizabethan  view  of,  152,  153. 

Variations,  Shakspere's  fondness 
for,  when   a  theme  possessed  hia 


INDEX. 


C 
439 


imagination,  85,  87,  108,  116,  276, 
277.     See  Cressida;  Desdemona. 

Verbal  ingenuity,  extravagance  of, 
in  Elizabethan  style,  2J,  30,  40, 
44,  56,  64,  84,  122,  196,  213,  366, 
399. 

Versatility,  Shakspere's,  of  experi- 
ment, ioi,  102,  157,  212,  213;  of 
concentration,  132,  136,  144.  163, 
190,  198,  215,  220,  249,  272,  275, 
277,  338. 

Verse-tests,  5,  83,  247,  326,  332,  333, 
336,  347,  349,  355,  356,  376,  377. 
Cf.  Ligbt  Findings;  Khyme;  Weak 
Endings;  Blank  verse. 

Vice,  chieC  ciiaracter  in  Moralities, 
31, 177,  i02. 


Ward,   A.  W.,  History  of  English 

Dramatic  Literature,  23. 
Weak  endings  to  verses,   320,  326, 

340. 
Weakness,  symptoms  of  growing,  in 

Shakspere's  later  work,  332,  345, 


349  seq.     See  Decadence;  Exhaus- 
tion; Relaxation. 
Webster,  John,  407-411;    mentioned, 
20,  344,  413,  414. 

Duckess  of  Malfi,  294. 
White     Dtvil,    408-410;     men- 
tioned,  19,  388,  394. 
Wit,  development  of,  in  Much  Ado 

About  Nothing,  195. 
Women,  as  set  forth  by  Shakspere, 
151,  197,  203,  216,    250,    260,  262 
seq.,  270,  272,  273,  277,  279  seq., 
300,   310  seq.,  325,  326,  331,  334, 
338  seq.,  362,  418. 
Words  and   ideas,    general   relations 
of,  56;  in  Shakspere's  mind  almost 
identical,  63,  65, 101.  102,  196,  212, 
213,  246,  381,  416,  420,  424. 
World,    as    known    in    Shakspere's 

time,  365,  308. 
W' vatt.  Sir  Thomas,  24,  25,  40,   53, 
83,  226,  403. 
Forget  Not  Yet,  24.  39. 
Sonnets,  25,  53. 


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